


In Sickness and in Wealth

by unicornwarrior



Category: Fall Out Boy, Twenty One Pilots
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-18
Updated: 2015-10-08
Packaged: 2018-04-15 11:32:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 21
Words: 30,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4605132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unicornwarrior/pseuds/unicornwarrior
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tyler Joseph is rich. <br/>Josh Dun is not. <br/>Tyler Joseph always gets his way. <br/>Until he doesn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One: I

**Author's Note:**

> so, hello everyone!  
> I am back from the depths of half-arsed summer holidays, and I have brought my new story with me.   
> I don't have a lot to say about this one, though, there is no resemblance to my real life.   
> This is a work of pure fiction. These characters share nothing with the actual real life people, and I do not own their names nor their identities.   
> That being said, I hope you enjoy this story, this is another quite serious one - but I like it :)   
> Updates will be handled as usual, Tuesdays, Thursdays and Sundays.   
> I hope you have a nice day/night, peace out   
> M

I’d always been deadly afraid of the dark. 

For some reason, the deathly shadows intrigued me, but in a bad way; in a way that caused my feet to start shaking and my steps to grow uncertain all of a sudden, the second the sunlight ceased to illuminate the path in front of me. There was nothing that had happened to trigger this fear; the uncontrollable shaking that would possess my skin and shrivel into my bones whenever night was climbing onto the sky. 

It had never occurred to me that this horrendous fright might be reasonable, that this awful fear that would cloud my judgement whenever the sun was nearing the horizon would one day prove to be completely justified – I’d hoped for it to never happen. 

I’d spent years of my life embracing the darkness around me, pretending that I could coexist with my fear; when in fact, I was a mere slave to my horrors. I was no warrior, I was not strong – I was a coward, but I knew how to hide it. 

The streets were shady-looking; twilight was seeping through the side alleys, reflecting off the bright neon signs that advertised sleazy strip clubs and dingy dance bars. Something about this place felt off, as if even the asphalt below my feet was hostile towards me. The only thing illuminating the scenery were eerie circles of street lamp light crowding around my feet, looking as though the dirty bright spots were following me around. 

My intoxicated mind, however, didn’t seem to take notice of the discomfort my subconscious was starting to sense. I stumbled on, down the streets, passing everything and everyone carelessly. Like there was nothing for me to mind, like it was the world’s duty to keep me happy. 

I almost didn’t feel the hand clamping over my mouth, cutting off nearly all of my air supply and quickly pulling me back into one of the alleys. My senses were dampened, like there was something that kept my mind from processing any logical thought – a dark veil of alcohol had taken up the larger portion of my brain, numbing it down until there was nothing left to think. Part of me tried to scream, but, really, I was too far gone to react to the seriousness of this situation. 

Therefore I let myself be pulled, let my body be cramped into a van and held down onto the floor. 

It seemed insultingly easy. 

All this man had to do was jump out of a van at night, and pull me with him. 

Me. 

I liked to think that I was actually a quite decent person, no one who would’ve deserved to just be violated like that; but I obviously had no say in this situation. 

The hand over my mouth smelt distinctly of hard manual labor and enraged cigarette breaks, bummed off other people due to the carrier of the scent being too poor to afford his own. It felt odd, to be so close to this stranger, the stranger who was possibly willing to hurt me, who was possibly _going_ to hurt me. 

The situation had suddenly become real – now that I was inside a van with a quite heavy man forcing me down with his own weight, keeping me on the ground and not intending to let me go – and still, there was not an ounce of fear inside my body. 

If I had been at my full intellectual capacity, if I hadn’t had that much to drink, if I hadn’t taken the pills this one guy had offered me – maybe I would’ve thought about what ulterior motive this man had for kidnapping me. 

I would’ve wondered whether he was doing it for the money, for his own good, or whether it was one of these sob stories where the criminal pretends to be the hero to be getting away from his punishment, to be getting away from facing the damage he had done. 

But I didn’t, because my mind was unable to process. 

Pathetic, I thought. 

The weight holding my body down seemed to be getting heavier by the second, and I eventually closed my eyes and passed out, slipping off into the familiar albeit completely foreign blackness that was seeking to envelope me.


	2. Part One: II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading, leave a comment, have a good day :)   
> M

I woke up to the sound of somebody yelling out angry words, the rage almost seeping through the walls and right into the room I was in. 

The pain in the back of my skull was not of the hammering hangover kind, but the sort of ache where you feel that the world is crashing down upon your very head and nothing is what it seems – paired up with a steady migraine building itself up and putting on its war gear in the depth of my skull. 

My eyes felt not quite ready to be opened and put to use, therefore I left them shut and tried to take in as much of my surroundings as I could, with only four senses available. 

Whatever surface I was placed upon, my back felt like it was being pierced by hundreds of little needles seeping through my skin and wearing it thin over the abuse. It smelt of the same odd mixture of smoke and work as the hand of the kidnapper had, and for a few seconds, I stopped to let the thought sink in: 

My kidnapper had smelt of something. 

My kidnapper.

I had been kidnapped. 

I had been taken to a place against my will and would now be held hostage until someone was coming to rescue me or these criminals would, for some obscure reason, decide to let me go. 

I had been kidnapped. 

For a few happy heartbeats, I thought that this was a joke, that my friends had played a trick on me. I thought that someone would free me instantly, twisting and turning with laughter, but deep down, I knew this was no joke. 

The sudden awareness was slowly taking over my entire mind, eating through every single barricade and fighting off every other thought that could possible enter, protruding and strong and defeating every single act of resistance. 

What I heard was a blurred jumble of words peeking through the walls, or doors, or whatever this was, and the sound of something scratching against another surface, something that vaguely sounded like fabric. The people were yelling, screaming, angry and hot-headed over something that the other had done, and it sounded quite like there was some shoving and kicking involved. 

My tongue felt like sandpaper, open and scratchy. The headache had now spread down into my mouth where it was pulling at my teeth; a gruesome hangover-like albeit not quite hung over feeling sending sharp shocks of pain through my body. It reached down to my toes, where it shot back up again and kept pulsing through my skull. My hands were briskly bound above my head, stretched and painful.

The taste of alcohol still hadn’t washed away; and as much as I tried to swallow it down, it wouldn’t budge, the stale shadow of the drinks I had knocked back the night before was still imprinted into my senses. 

“Good morning, sleeping beauty,” said a voice, and even though I had been willing myself to fall back into the uncomfortable slumber, my eyes wrenched themselves open. 

I was looking at a man, apparently the same one whose hand had been clamped across my mouth and whose body had held me down in the van. He looked big and broad and angry, his frame was so tall and so threatening that something inside my body immediately started growling with fear, willing me to curl up and wither in panic.

If my hands hadn’t been bound above my head, they would’ve shot immediately to my chest, protecting the last bit of strength buried beneath my ribs, but I couldn’t move them, cuffs digging deeply into my wrists. 

The man wore a simple ski mask on his head, pulled down to cover his nose and only leaving small holes for mouth and eyes. His eyes were of a hazel color that held something that clashed horribly with the rage mirrored in his other features and his mouth was a short, pink and almost condescendingly amused line. Everything else I spotted on him was a lean upper body, muscles weaving around the bones and making his frame seem a strange mixture of strong and weak, and wirily muscled legs. A strange assortment of tattoos was covering his bicep, causing me to shortly wonder where and why he had gotten them. 

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” I spat out, realization suddenly slipping through my teeth. “I am a free man, and I demand that you let me out of here.” 

The man only chuckled; a short, evil laugh. 

“You have no right to do this to me.” 

The anger inside me had risen quickly and hotly, something that felt like lava was tightening my throat and squishing up all the other feelings and the edge of rationality that I had left. 

My rage, however, immediately vanished when the kidnapper looked down at me with fiery eyes. 

I let out a bone-shattering, piercing scream that bounced off the walls and made the little hairs on the back of my neck stand out, plainly horrified at the look he was giving me – so full of disdain. 

I screamed and screamed and screamed and the man merely stood there, bathing in the light of his superiority. He was enjoying this so much; enjoying my helplessness, enjoying the fact that my hands were cuffed and I wouldn’t be able to escape even if I tried. 

He was enjoying the fact that I was a little nothing beneath his feet, and I got the feeling that there was more than money in the picture – this was about vengeance. 

When he looked away, the panic vanished yet again, to be immediately replaced with the accustomed rage. 

My neck grew and grew with anger as I looked him up and down, his glowing eyes and menacing smile that was almost unnoticeable beneath the black mask staring at me condescendingly. 

He was enjoying this. 

He was enjoying this, the way that he could lower his gaze in order to stare at me intently through his bottom lashes. 

“You demand?” he repeated incredulously, the sarcastic undertone becoming more and more apparent through his words. “I highly doubt that you’re in a position to demand anything, my dear,” said the man, and I angrily flared my nostrils. 

“Don’t you know who I am?” I asked. “I am Tyler Joseph, and I demand to be released from this place.” 

The man merely chuckled again, short and evil, and I let out another yell, although this time, it wasn’t scared or panicked – it was purely angry. 

“Let me go!” I screamed, and he laughed once more, slowly making his way toward the door. 

“No,” he said simply, and left. 

-

The room was desolate, cold, and angry, like the kidnapper himself. 

One teeny tiny barred window was throwing a slim strip of dreary light through the room, located right above the pallet I was laid on and cuffed to. 

The floor was dark and dirty, like someone had already lived here, years ago, buried in the dirt of what looked like a century. 

And the door; it was dark grey and looked distinctly metallic; impossible to break open, even if I tried. 

I curled up on the pallet in the corner as best as I could with my hands still cuffed together; even though the hard mattress was stinging my back and the blanket was not nearly enough to keep me warm, and the restraints started cutting and biting into my skin at even the tiniest motion. 

‘Why me?’ was the last thought crossing my mind before I drifted off to a distant half-slumber.


	3. Part One: III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello everyone!   
> I hope you're liking this so far, it was pretty hard to write since it's 100% fiction and I unlike with Ode to the Selfish, I have no real events and real feelings to guide me, this is all made up, so.   
> Leave me a comment, thank you for reading and have a nice day :)  
> M

Whatever it was that I dreamt of, it vaguely resembled the shapes of my kidnapper: a dark face, covered in a simple mask that was pulled down to reach just over the nape of his neck, and a lanky frame that I was oddly drawn towards, like there was an aura of mystery around this man that called for me to explore. 

My slumber ached and sent me into a full-blown coughing fit the second I managed to force my eyes apart, and a very painfully big part of me wanted to go back to sleep. The more dominant half, though, was subconsciously willing me to stay awake for some reason – I soon realized why. 

The heavy steel door swung open, footsteps immediately shuffling through and into the room, followed by the loud clash of it falling shut yet again. 

I didn’t need to open my eyes to know who the intruder might be. 

-

“I have told you once, and I will not tell you again.” 

Pause. 

“Let me out of here.” 

Pause. 

“I don’t think so.” 

Pause. 

“Who the fuck do you think you are to keep me captured like this?” 

Pause.

Laugh. 

“An old friend of your father’s.”

Pause. 

Another laugh. 

Menacing. 

Dark. 

Scary. 

End.

-

As my eyes finally managed to be wrangled open, I suddenly stared at something that looked like a metal pipe held right up against the bridge of my nose between my two eyes. The metal pipe was attached to something bigger, blacker; the dark surface only interrupted by the harsh bend of a flesh-colored element. 

Only when a strange, strange albeit all too familiar clicking sound echoed off the walls, I realized that this was not solely a metal pipe attached to something black, which was in turn attached to something flesh-colored. 

This was a gun. 

A lethal weapon.

Pointed right at my face. 

I let my gaze trail upwards, roam over the chunk of human at the end of the handle and threading through the trigger, and finally, stutter to a halt at the sight of a masked face. 

Hazel eyes. 

Full, pink lips, bending harshly around a cigarette. 

“Can I bum a smoke?” I said, immediately, the aching for something to distract me suddenly growing bigger but immediately deflating. 

The man merely smirked, and let the gun slowly lower to point at my chest, prodding at my ribs and coldly leaving me all too aware of its existence in my vicinity.

“I brought you food,” he said. “I want you to eat, and then, if you play it nice, I’ll let you have a drag.” He added a smug smile. 

My nostrils started flaring almost instantly, hot white rage suddenly bubbling up in my throat. 

“I don’t have to do a fucking thing you tell me to do,” I informed the man, my voice growing louder and louder with every word. “I owe you nothing, and if you do not want to be destroyed the second my father finds you, you better give me a fucking cigarette and a decent meal, you worthless piece of…of nothing!” 

“Why?” said the man, “Are you planning on staying?” He chuckled, short and humorless. “I thought you were _demanding_ that I immediately release you from this false imprisonment.” Another winning smirk was thrown my way. “You wouldn’t need any kind of food if you weren’t planning on staying with me, anyway.” Another smirk crinkled up the corners of his mouth, dangerous and condescending. “You call that a comeback?” 

I did not have to let this man treat me this way, I thought. I was under no kind of obligation to let this man handle the situation however he may have pleased, and I was fully permitted to show him my distaste for the general attitude towards me he seemed to be sporting. 

“I don’t want to play games with you,” I said, curtly and hotly. 

“Oh, what a shame,” he said. “Because I love playing games.” 

That being said, he turned to back up a few steps, leaving me to crave the harsh smoke of a cigarette seeping through my lungs. 

-

“Eat.” 

Pause. 

“No.” 

Pause. 

“Why not?” 

Pause. 

“I don’t want to.” 

Pause. 

Angry groan. 

“You need to.” 

Pause. 

“No.”

Pause.

Defiant. 

“I don’t need to do anything you tell me to.” 

End.

-

The man quickly undid the cuffs still tying me to the uncomfortable pallet and left almost immediately, slamming the door shut behind himself. 

I shook off the goosebumps crowding my skin and started walking toward the little table in the corner of the room. There was a tray on it, a packaged sandwich that didn’t seem all too fresh next to a bottle of water – not exactly what I was used to. 

For a second, I considered just leaving it right there, but my stomach reminded me of the lack of nutrition my body was facing by barking out a short, almost painful growl that rummaged and reflected through my entire body and I quickly started unpacking the sandwich. 

When I was finished almost violently forcing myself to eat it, the man still hadn’t come back to tie me to the bed again, so I figured I was free to move around for the time being. 

My bones were tired from resting for so long, therefore I started walking up and down the room, hoping that my exasperated body would finally find a little peace in the movement – it didn’t seem to be working. 

There was still a surreal air around this. 

I couldn’t believe that this was happening to me; I couldn’t believe that I was the one who’d been damned – I had never done anything to provoke such things. 

As the seconds were idly going by, I started counting the cracks in the ceiling. 

And then I counted to cracks in the walls. 

And then I looked out the window for a very long time, just staring at the green, fresh freedom outside. 

There was a forest nearby, the line of trees separating the small place the house I was in had claimed. It was a quite picturesque scene, with birds grazing across the blue sky and the grass healthily reaching up toward them – only that for me, it was more threatening than anything else. 

Minutes or hours or maybe only moments went by until finally, the noise of a car approaching the house filled the silence. Soon after, a beat up pick-up truck stuttered to a halt mere feet away from the window, and out stumbled a man who looked like something that you would see in a teen mag; dark eyes, dark hair and a fairly exotic face structure, eyes outlined with black. 

The man was talking in a quiet voice, to someone that I couldn’t see from this angle, and he sounded quite desperate. 

I couldn’t make out any of the words, they were oddly shaped and slightly blurry, therefore I merely stood there and listened to the sound of the yelling. 

It was strangely comforting to hear people screaming at each other. 

-

The silence was unbearable. 

Never, not even once in my life, had I felt so helplessly trapped in my own mind. 

Silence had always kind of freaked me out, to be quite honest – silence leaves so much room for thoughts, but my thoughts were mostly not worth being heard, not even worth being thought. For a while, I had tried drowning them out with artful, constructive occupations, but as it quickly turned out to be useless, I resorted to harder methods of distracting; loud, electronically generated music blaring through tall speakers, heavy bass thumping through my chest, worthless lyrics, small, round pills, any drink I could get my hands on, smoke polluting my respiratory system, people grinding their crotches against me: Anything to keep my thoughts busy.   
In this place, though, there was nothing. 

Nothing at all. 

I was too aware of my surroundings, too…too _present_. 

After maybe three meals that I consumed in the restricted basement, my hands started shaking and my lungs began aching for the sweetening burn of nicotine scratching them open. It was nearly unbearable, the urge rising up in my body every three seconds, tempting me and paining me. 

It took a little longer for me to realize that something else was missing. 

My hands started shaking, itching, and aching. My insides were bouncy, nervous, as if there was something off, but I could not pinpoint what exactly it was that was paining me from the inside. Suddenly, nausea started to rise in my throat, welling up and spreading into my head, my mouth, my nose, even my eyes felt the discomfort. 

It just felt so horribly wrong that it took me almost two more meals to finally discover the true origin of these sensations: 

I needed alcohol. 

Not necessarily did I need alcohol itself, I was more longing for the emptiness inside my skull that the dull ache of a shot of vodka would bring. I was longing for the silence that crept through the loud, rummaging speakers of the clubs. I was longing for the sweet nothingness that I had trapped myself in ever since it had happened three years ago. 

At the mere thought of the day, the shaking of my arms grew more panicked and more present, making it almost impossible for me to keep still. 

And the time started rushing by, one meal coming after another and the masked man only looking at me to tell me something that that vaguely resembled noises of utter disgust, muttering insults at my hunched over figure in the darkness of the corner furthest away from the door. 

The silence was unbearable. 

I was craving the feeling of the bass thumping heavily through the crowd, viscerally craving the sweaty bodies pushing themselves up against me and girls and boys alike approaching me like I was some kind of royalty. I missed the harsh bend of my lips around a cigarette, I missed the way that my lungs would collapse into themselves whenever I lit one, and I wanted it so much – I so badly wanted to go back to my old life. 

There was no idle chatter buzzing through the room, all was silence. 

All was thoughts. 

I had never dealt well with change, but this was a way too big adjustment made to my lifestyle. I was most certainly not used to being treated like…a poor person. 

The silence was unbearable. 

-

“I hate you.”

Pause. 

“I know.” 

Pause. 

“I’m sorry.” 

Pause. 

Bows his head. 

“Too late.” 

Pause. 

“I know.”

End.


	4. Part One: IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey!   
> whoa guys. I forgot how much twenty one pilots blew up on my little internet break - this is insane.   
> thank you all so much for reading, thanks for the kudos and thanks for the lovely comments I received (from one person, you know who you are and you rock).   
> have a really nice day, maybe leave me a comment (*wink*) and enjoy this chapter!   
> peace out   
> M

The days and nights quickly coalesced into a grey mass; unmoving and unsettling. 

Nothing in the routine that the kidnapper had planned was flexible or by any means spontaneous. I got my meals on time, and I sat in my room the rest of the days. There was no asymmetry, no irregularity. 

Sometimes it was comforting. 

But most times, it was absolutely horrifying. 

I had no idea how many days I had been held captive, and I had no idea what time of the day it even was – the light softly falling through the window above the pallet might have been changing, but I never had the strength to look outside, in deep fear of breaking down over the sheer urge to flee and get away from this…this lunatic. 

-

“Give me a cigarette.”

Pause. 

“No.” 

Pause. 

“Why not?” 

Pause. 

“Because I can’t afford more than one pack a week.” 

Pause.

“So I need to be careful.”

Pause. 

“And I certainly don’t want to waste my smokes on you.” 

Pause. 

“You’re worthless scum.” 

Pause. 

End. 

-

As the time went by, I was more and more longing and wanting for my father to finally pay the demanded ransom and set me free, but I was soon to find out that we were far away from that. 

A little while later, though, my wish for change got fulfilled. 

The light sneaking through the window was still thin and cold, barely throwing a strip of eerie brightness onto the floor. The toilet in the corner of the room was glistening wetly. The tap was dripping. The skin was dirty. 

The door opened. 

It opened loudly, as though the person coming in wanted to be sure that I had heard them and taken notice of their arrival. I looked up reluctantly, letting my gaze wander over their feet up their body and to their obscured face – it was, as assumed, the kidnapper. 

Only was he not alone. 

Standing next to him, a few feet smaller than himself, was a man with another mask and black clothes that looked like they hadn’t been washed in weeks. The smaller man looked by no means as angry as the other one; his hands were easily stuffed into his pockets and from the place where I was sat, it almost looked like he was smiling beneath his mask – but I was probably wrong. Maybe he was scowling. Ridiculing me. It took me mere seconds to recognize him as the olive-tanned man who had stood in front of the window some time ago, yelling and spitting angry words at the other kidnapper. 

They didn’t say a word this time, merely came toward me to put cuffs on my hands yet again. For a few heartbeats, I wondered whether the other man needed to be here to cuff me, but then they blindfolded me and started dragging me out of the room and up some stairs and through more doors and finally, as I felt a cold wind pick at my clothes, outside. 

I hadn’t been outside in…days, weeks, months? 

They quickly carried on, lifting me into a car where they laid me down on something that felt like a blanket; the same van, then. 

They put me down, blindfolded and cuffed. 

I could not rely on any of my senses anymore. 

Part of me wondered why they hadn’t bothered to gag me, and I immediately started yelling and screaming for them to release me; to let me out of this place – the confinement of the car was even more suffocating than the room I had been kept in prior to this day. Although I could not see it – I felt the walls closing in on me, restricting me, pressing on me. 

I was yelling and screaming and trying to worm my way out of the grip of the man towering above me, but it was no use. 

“Where are you taking me?” I asked, desperately. 

“Why are you doing this?” 

I prompted no answer from the man, nothing but a faint rustling of clothes echoed through the car. 

He didn’t even deem me worthy enough of an answer. 

I didn’t even ask myself when I had had my last actual conversation with a decent human being – it must have been weeks, if not months ago. 

-

“You have no right to keep me here.”

Pause. 

“No, I do not.” 

Pause. 

“Why are you doing it, then?” 

Pause. 

“Cause I feel like you should live in poverty for a little while.” 

Pause. 

“You don’t really deserve anything more.” 

Pause. 

“You are a piece of shit.” 

Pause. 

“If you won’t let me be, my father will find you and kill you and your little friend.” 

Pause. 

“You know what?” 

Pause. 

Little chuckle. 

“You deserve whatever the world has coming for you. You deserved being born poor, you deserve not being able to change that because you’re a lazy piece of shit. You deserve nothing better than what you have.”

Pause. 

“You’re worthless.”

Punch.

-

At first, I believed that my senses were tricking me and there had been no heavy fist colliding with my jawbone. At first, I believed that not even this man could be reckless enough to do this, to violate me as much as he had – but I quickly learnt that my senses were, in fact, quite reliable when it came down to it. 

The pain was quickly spreading throughout my entire skull, nipping at the base of my eyes and crawling down into my neck where it sat comfortably. 

This man, he had punched me. 

He had used physical violence to reinforce his superiority; he had put me down to rest below him, thinking that I was lesser of worth than him. 

He had taken pleasure in inflicting bodily harm upon me. 

This man, he had punched me. 

“You didn’t just-”

“Yes, I did,” said the man, looking down at me like I was the worthless scum, not him. Like I was the one putting other people down. Like I was the one using my power to impress and, more importantly, suppress others. 

I couldn’t see him, but I knew. 

“And there’s plenty more where that came from,” he added darkly, and shut his mouth. 

I knew that he was looking down at me, utter distaste in his eyes. 

I just knew.

-

The car glided along rumpled paths and streets, almost throwing itself around corners and speeding down highways. Part of me was a little scared of the thought that I couldn’t really see where we were going – this man could send us flying off a cliff in a crazed suicidal string of thoughts, and I wouldn’t even notice until we’d be lying on the floor, bleeding out. 

We drove on for maybe minutes or hours or days; I couldn’t say. 

I was a little too focused on the man whose presence I was more aware of than anything else. I could almost feel his gaze burning into my head, piercing through my skull and angrily pinning me right where I was, leaving me no room to escape. As if he had some kind of personal grudge he’d been holding against me; some kind of deeply buried hatred that he had been carrying inside himself for years over years. 

I didn’t know what I had done to cause him to hate me, therefore, I decided, it was simply not my fault – this man was obviously looking for a sinner to burn on the stake, and if there was no sinner within reach, he would take a saint. 

After what felt like an eternity and three days, the van stuttered to a halt and spat us out onto a dirty gravel road where the angry man immediately pulled me up to my feet, quite roughly, and dragged me along with him. 

I didn’t know where they were taking me or where I was supposed to go, so I merely let myself be pulled along and stuffed into yet another eerily quiet, lonely room. 

The door slammed shut. 

I was alone again. 

At least I thought so, until a pair of almost deathly cold hands started unwrapping the blindfold covering my eyes and letting it drop to the floor beneath me. 

I saw a room just like the other one. 

A dirty pallet in the corner, a small, dingy table in the other, and a toilet along with a sink that looked just the slightest bit disgusting. 

Horrible. 

Only then I realized that the other person standing behind me still hadn’t left.

Their presence was alluring. 

I slowly turned around, for some reason now feeling slightly nervous – I didn’t exactly know why. 

“I pity you,” said the voice of the man that I’d heard so many times now, but still couldn’t quite get used to – it was soft and scratchy, hot and red and angry but smooth and white and comforting at the same time. 

I was losing my mind, I figured. 

-

“You are in no place to pity me.” 

Pause. 

“You think you’re so great.”

Pause. 

“Look at you, the amazing Tyler Joseph, nothing bad ever happens to you, right?” 

Pause. 

“I truly pity you.” 

Pause. 

“You don’t even know what it’s like to sit in silence.” 

End.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just had to. Sorry.


	5. Part One: V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks so much for all the reads, kudos & comments , it's amazing how fast this thing has risen :)  
> I hope you have a lovely day/night and enjoy this chapter, it's the last one of Part One!   
> M

I started counting the seconds, and it was exactly twenty-thousand, three-hundred and forty five seconds until the man walked into the room again. He was still wearing his mask, and for a bizarre moment, I wondered why he felt the need to hide his face – and then I remembered; he was a criminal. Scum. There was no face to hide, because these kinds of people were not to be considered even to me – there was nothing human about traitors, murderers, kidnappers. All these heinous wretches were nothing compared to every single pure human being. 

I didn’t dwell on the thought, though, because he walked over and sat down on the ground in front of me. 

“Not so cocky anymore, are you?” he asked mockingly, a sudden smile curling his lips. It seemed off in the entire scenario, red and plush against the black mask and odd and off in the grey, scary room. 

For a second, I pondered on what had caused his sudden change of character, the sudden happy glow in his eyes. Had my father fulfilled their ransom demands? Were they finally going to set me free? 

I shook the thoughts off; continued staring in the other direction to show that I had no intention of defeating my pride and stooping as low as to talk to him – I was nowhere near as desperate as I would’ve needed to be. 

“Oh, still an arrogant fuck.” He laughed a little, sounding beyond bitter. “Well, I love how you think that you’re better than us because your daddy has more money.” 

I still refused to reply, so he merely continued, not taking the slightly angry and mocking undertone out of his voice. 

“You’re just like us, you’re just like the poor scum that you spit on every day,” he went on. “You’re not better because you’re rich, you’re worse because you think you’re better.” Another bitter laugh. “But, luckily for you, you’re not here because I hate you. We just need the money, and we thought it would be fitting to take you – considering you’re Albert Joseph’s son, and it’s a little ironic for us to hurt him.” He smirked. “But I have good news; we have recently made the demands and your father is working on getting the money together.” 

With that, he got up and started walking toward the door. 

He stopped, though, right inside the frame, and shouted over his shoulder, “Congratulations, your vacation to poverty will be over soon.” 

And then, the door fell shut. 

And I lay there, not moving and not wanting to, anyway – tiredness over doing noting and nothing had settled deeply into my bones. 

I did not know what kind of anger was driving him to hate me as much as he did, as much as he felt like he did. I didn’t know why he was feeling the need to teach me a lesson about living in poverty – it wasn’t like I didn’t know that people out there live in misery. I just knew that with most people, it was their own fault. 

I had met a few people who had told me that I was ‘arrogant’ or a ‘snob’, or even ‘disgusting’ – but let’s be honest, that was a very small price to pay in order to live the life that most can only dream of. 

This man, though, harbored a different kind of hatred toward me. 

The little I could see of his eyes was always so full of resentment whenever he looked down at me, so full of unrequited rage that he’d never made room for. He radiated hate with every single fiber of his being, every word that he said, even every breath that he took. There was so much anger inside him. 

And, for some strange reason, I wanted to know why. 

Had something happened to him? Something traumatizing? 

Was that why he hated so much? 

I usually was able to shrug off any distasteful comments thrown in my direction, there was nothing that could reach me because I knew that there was one person that hated me even more, that would always despise me even worse than every single human being in the whole wide world would ever be able to; but now? 

This man, the kidnapper, he might even have hated me more than I hated me. 

-

A few hours later, I heard yelling sounding off the walls. 

I approached the door quietly, leaning my ear against the wooden surface and listening desperately for decipherable words. 

“…still not enough, Pete,” a very familiar voice yelled. 

“We can’t fucking take three million bucks off the guy, even Mr. I-Rip-Everyone-Off Joseph doesn’t have that kind of money.” 

“His son must have some kind of worth for him,” said the first voice. It was a voice that I was used to hearing in a harsh tone, so I figured it was the kidnapper. 

So, the quiet enabler who had assisted him on his mission was named…Pete? 

It seemed like such a generic name for someone as dangerous, as worthless as him. 

A generic name for a person that had, as well as the other man, taken pleasure in seeing me raided of my status and wealth. 

“Yeah, but not enough to put his own fucking existence at stake,” hollered the one who’d been addressed as Pete. 

“Well, do you fucking _want_ Patrick to die?” the other one replied, and I smirked to myself, finally having realized the origin of their motives. 

Oh, how lovely. 

They were doing this to save somebody – it was just…adorable. How heroic they must view themselves as – how Robin Hood-like they must be feeling just because in order to finance a life-saving operation, they had taken the son of a rich businessman and were now demanding money from him. 

I didn’t pity them. I didn’t pity their ‘friend’, the one they were apparently doing this for; I merely felt a faint tinge of hate against him, hate for being the reason as to why these men felt entitled to take my freedom. 

No, I didn’t pity any of them. 

Not even a little bit. 

“No, I don’t,” said Pete, more quietly this time around. “You know that I love him.” 

I squealed out a delighted chuckle. 

Adorable. 

I felt, finally, that I had some sort of superiority.


	6. Part Two: I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for all the reads, guys, it means a lot to me.   
> leave me a comment.   
> stay alive |-/  
> M

It wasn’t particularly dark when I sat on the pallet in the corner, counting the seconds and waiting for another hour to pass, another second to be ticked away by clocks I could not see nor hear. 

I heard the yelling immediately. 

I didn’t know what they were fighting over or why their argument had gotten that heated – but I heard an all too familiar voice yell. I heard them yell, and almost immediately, something in my chest threatened to fall. 

I had complained about the silence, but this was not the kind of noise that I usually liked to fill my mind with. 

“Then get the dude to fucking pay for his son to get out of here alive.”

Those words. 

They didn’t miss by an inch, firing straight into my stomach and drawing masses of blood – thick, quickly flowing blood, immediately stating to ooze out of invisible wounds.   
‘get out of here alive’. 

There was no choice for me. 

Either my father would pay up, or I wouldn’t be getting away with my life. 

I tried to tell myself that I didn’t have to doubt my father, I was not going to die because there was no way an honest and good man like him would let that happen, but my thoughts seemed to be unable to rationalize at the moment, since they kept digressing, wandering off into faintly disturbing directions. 

I could possibly die. 

There was a possibility that this kidnapper, this man, this piece of worthless shit, would do me physical harm beyond a small slap or a punch in the jaw like the one I’d suffered during the transportation. 

That was the first time that the seriousness of the given events hit me. It washed over me so profoundly, with such incredible speed, flooding my mind and leaving no room for any other thought. 

Every vacancy of my head was, all of a sudden, occupied by that one thought: 

I could die. 

The fact that there was an even ever so slight eventuality that I was going to lose my life in here was so consuming, so…so smothering.

I was twenty-one, and I was going to die. I was twenty-one, I was the son of a billionaire, and I was going to die, even though I had done nothing wrong in my life. I was twenty-one, barely old enough to drink the amounts of alcohol I had shoveled into my liver even before I had turned seventeen. I was twenty-one, I knew too much about pills and drinks and smoking. I was twenty-one, I had never had a real friend, I had never been truly happy, I had never told my father that I loved him. I was twenty-one, I had never been in love, I had never been to Europe. I was twenty-one. 

I was twenty-one, and I was possibly going to die. 

I was possibly never going to turn twenty-two. 

Panic snuck up into my brain, wrapping around all my thoughts and burying deeply inside my brain stem, unreachable but flagellating nonetheless. I started screaming, screaming and screaming, screaming for my life. 

The panic suddenly seemed to pair up with the sole thought of my nearing decease, building vicious cycles of anxiety inside my brain, forcing me to think of it and nothing else. 

I didn’t want to die. 

Someone had to save me. 

Someone had to help me out of this. 

Someone had to save my life from those maniacs. 

Someone had to give me the strength to get out of here. 

Someone. 

And I screamed. And I yelled. And I cried.

My hands shot up, starting to scratch at my skin manically, breaking open the old scars and urging small droplets of blood to surface. It started hurting, paining me insanely, surging through my body. I scratched and scratched, dug my fingernails into my skin. The yelling around me didn’t stop, all the noise and all the pain seemed to be working against me, prodding my head and working to bury me six feet deep. Every single thing had melted into a blur, shapeless colors rapidly moving around me, circling me, encasing me.

I was screaming and crying and writhing on the floor but nothing stopped, it kept being loud. 

I hadn’t noticed the door opening and someone entering the room until a hand gripped at my shoulder, firmly but gently at the same time. 

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” an angry voice asked, but I realized that the voice sounded more scared than enraged – he was still trying to keep up the façade, but there was undeniable fear of what was happening to me, the image that presented itself to him. A man kneeling on the ground, scratching open his skin almost compulsively. 

“Don’t-” I choked out, but I interrupted myself with a sob, or a cry. I didn’t know anymore which noises were coming out of my mouth and which were a reflection of the insanity in my head. “Don’t-” I tried again, but my voice cracked and I had to stop myself again. 

“Don’t kill me,” I finally choked out, and the grip on my arm suddenly softened into something…almost reassuring. 

“I’m not going to kill you,” he said, and for the brink of a second, I believed him. I believed the hand on my shoulder that was holding me, keeping me from rolling around on the floor manically. I believed the voice softly surrounding me. 

Until my mind roared and jerked me awake.

“Get away from me!” I screamed, bunching myself up near the wall. My body was drawing away from all touch, my eyes scrunching shut and every single limb of mine folding itself up and trying to wrench back into my midsection, all self-preservation instincts overtaking me at once. 

I needed to get out of here; get away from this man. He was going to hurt me, kill me, cause me pain. I needed him to go away. I needed to get away. 

My arms didn’t stop scratching, and I didn’t stop them either. 

“Get away!” I repeated, my voice slipping off into a screeching tone, where it remained.

The man looked beyond confused as I continued madly scratching at my arms, my fingernails raking over the skin and breaking it open, old scars and old pain, freeing it and letting it flee back into my head where it sat, scrunched everything up; everything was pain, every wound was open. 

“No!” I screamed. 

My eyes were screwed shut, but I heard the man take a step toward me, and I immediately shrunk further against the wall. 

“Please don’t hurt me,” I screeched, but he just took another step, and another one, until he was standing right in front of me. 

He grabbed a hold of my arms and forced them to still, forced me to stop breaking open my old wounds; reopening my scars, reopening my pain. His eyes were focused and a little scared, and I tried my best to rid myself of his grip and squirmed and twisted under his body, but he wouldn’t budge.

He merely stared at me, an odd mixture of fear and concern mirrored in his eyes. 

“Calm down,” he said, in a suddenly soothing voice. It sounded a lot softer than usually. 

I looked up into a pair of eyes. 

They were brown, scrunched up around the edges like they were used to laughing a lot – but the lines were faded, like the day of laughter were over, like all the happiness had vanished to make room for the lines of anger and worry creasing into his skin.

Something deep lay in his eyes; something almost calming and dark. There was no seeming emotion in his expression, mere tranquility and comfort; he was only looking at me without wanting to force me into something. 

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said softly. 

And for some reason, I believed him. 

I let him leave the room, even though something inside me protested faintly when his grip on my arms broke away, and he came back with tape and bandages to take care of the blood streaming down my arms, and I let him pour the burning alcoholic disinfect onto my wounds. It stung, though, so it was all right.

When he had finished, he got up and walked out without another word. 

Minutes later, he returned with a bottle of water and an almost fresh-looking sandwich. He pressed the items into my hands and retreated wordlessly. 

Another minute later, he walked in to place a couple of notebooks, a pen and a bag of chips on the desk. 

No words were exchanged. 

We didn’t talk about it after that. 

-

“I have no idea.” 

Pause. 

“Dude is really fucked up.” 

Pause. 

“Yeah, he is.” 

Pause. 

“Do you think it has anything to do with that accident his mother died in?” 

Pause. 

“Well, he only started going insane after that, right?” 

Pause. 

“Yeah.” 

Pause. 

Shrug. 

“Poor bastard.”

End.

-

It took me some time to figure out what it had been that had reassured me so much about the presence of my kidnapper that day. 

I was scrambling through my mind, searching every bit and corner, until I finally realized: 

He hadn’t had his mask on. 

I had seen his face, his actual eyes, not in the slightest obscured by the deforming ski mask that he usually wore. I had finally, for the first time in my life, seen the facial features of the person that had taken my life away from me. 

For some reason, though, when I tried to think of his face, the thought immediately disappeared and I only saw the mask – the black, deepening mask. Fabric covering his face. 

What I did recall, though, was a mop of red hair, neatly dyed almost to perfection. There was not a single strand of his natural hair color left, and that was all that my blurry memory of my last attack had left me with. 

I didn’t see the kidnapper in the next few days, though. 

I was given food and water by Pete, who would only look down at me with degradingly sympathetic smiles. I resumed to addressing him with disparaging insults, but he merely answered with pitiful looks and sad eyes. 

I hated him. 

-

It took the red haired man exactly thirteen meals to return. 

I didn’t quite know why I was counting, therefore I told myself that I was holding onto the red haired kidnapper because he was one of the few steady lines in my life. Or, whatever I could call a life at the moment. 

I didn’t remember what day it was, or what time it was, or how long I even had been there – I didn’t know.

I settled on not knowing for the time being, though; it was more comforting than the truth, I supposed. 

When the kidnapper, yet again buried beneath the mask, entered the room, he looked about as confused as I felt at his sudden presence. 

“I don’t understand you, Tyler Joseph,” he said. 

I shrugged, unwilling to come up with an answer for all the unspoken questions hovering above the two of us.

“One moment, you’ll be crying and screaming, begging me not to hurt you, and the next moment, you’re back to insulting me and P- my friend,” he observed, his eyes going slim at the statement. “You have two sides, Joseph, and it scares me to hell. It’s like you can’t decide whether you’re a horrible asshole that deserves to be killed or a hurt little boy whose daddy didn’t kiss him enough.” At that, his lips seemed to be curling into an incredulous smile, as if he were onto something that I couldn’t grasp. “Maybe that’s why, though.” 

That was when something inside my head snapped and I broke out of the trance I had been in, looking up at him with the most raging look I could muster. 

“Don’t you fucking _dare_ bring my father into this, worthless scum,” I hissed through my teeth. My whole body tensed up, merely my hands were searching up my arms, trying to find the ends of the bandages and going to rip them off, but I stopped them before they could get any more forceful. Before my weakness would get the better of me. 

“You talk way too fondly of him considering he did this to you,” he spat out while he sat down on the bed next to me. I immediately tried shuffling away, but my back soon hit the wall and I was trapped between the body of the strange red haired man with a mask and the dirty white, almost beige, brick wall. 

“You know _nothing_ ,” I spat back, averting my gaze almost compulsively. It was as if my head was twisting and turning away, desperately trying to keep my gaze away from his eyes; because I knew that if I looked at them for too long, I would start getting this strange feeling of trust again. I would start feeling like I could, and should, tell him things about myself that I doubt would come out as true. 

So instead, I looked at the wall across the room, counted the cracks, and tried to seem as indifferent as possible. 

“I know a lot more than you think,” said the red haired man, and for a bizarre second I wondered what his name might be. 

Maybe it was ‘Joe’, or ‘Hank’, or ‘William’; something almost insultingly normal. Like Pete: Something that would just not sound like a person who could do this to a fellow human being. A name not suitable for a wretch like these people, not suitable for heinous miscreants. 

Maybe this man was no criminal; maybe he was a man just like my father. Maybe he was doing all this to spite my family and not for the money; maybe he was trying to drive me insane with the thought of not knowing what was going to happen next, by leaving me to sit in silence, slowly being consumed by my thoughts. The possibility was slim; but it was present – maybe they’d planned for me to eavesdrop on their conversation. 

Maybe this was a casual act of cruelty rather than a crime disguised as a good deed, a Robin Hood adventure with a sadistic twist. 

Maybe, I thought for almost a second, they knew about the things that had happened to me years ago. 

I pushed the thought away immediately, though, because no one other than my mother knew. And my mother wasn’t going to tell anyone, that was for sure. 

“I don’t think you do,” I said quietly, and went back to staring at my own feet. They were more interesting than the dark, matt surface of the wall, where shadows were lurking and waiting to devour. 

“I know that your father is a horrible man,” he said, “I know he has his hands in dirty business, the dirty business that has helped him to most of his wealth. I know that he replaced his wife with a newer, blonder, prettier little gold-digger version when your beloved mother finally-”

“Don’t you fucking _dare_ bring my mother into this!” I suddenly yelled, my gaze snapping over to his face in a moment of pure anger. Something red and burning had flared up inside me. 

The second I realized what was happening, I also realized that it hadn’t been a good idea. Wandering over his face was a look of curiosity, but the regret – at what he had said? – was more protruding. I immediately felt twinges of this strange feeling of trust that had possessed me the last time he’d held my arms – I pushed it away. 

“What happened?” he asked, and I let out a short, bitter laugh. Similar to his, actually. Scarily similar. 

“What makes you think that I’ll tell you?” I asked darkly, with a slight snicker added at the end. 

“It’s either you talk to me or you watch the inside of your eyes, your choice.”

I was tempted to say something like ‘I would rather die right on the spot than talk to worthless scum like you’, but then I remembered. 

This loneliness, the cold, it was driving me fucking insane. 

The dark was smothering, and I so desperately missed the comfort of alcohol, drugs, sex, anything – anything to take my mind off…well, my mind. Anything to distract me from the growing pains in my head and heavy arms. 

Therefore, I decided to play it nice.

It was not a willing decision, frankly, my head just kind of played against me. 

“What do you want to know?” I asked. 

“Why you freaked out so much when you picked up that we were going to kill you,” he said bluntly, and my hands immediately started shaking. My fingers went up to pull at already loose bandage and I had to flex every muscle in my body to keep them from doing so. 

“Anybody would find that a not particularly appealing prospect,” I tried to say, but the words got stuck somewhere between my mind and my throat and came out rather rushed and jumbled up. 

“You started scratching open your skin.” 

My right hand almost escaped, and I tried to subtly jam it between the lower side of my thigh and the thin blanket placed on the disgusting cot, but it hadn’t worked – the red haired man was giving me a quite questioning look. 

“You’re doing it again,” he observed, and I shook my head, maybe a little too quickly. 

It was like my muscles were moving on their own accord; not asking for input from my brain as they snuck up to my lower arms to start scratching. In short, spastic movements, I managed to get my hands beneath my legs again and the panic immediately grew bigger. 

“Don’t,” I choked out, “I can’t.” 

The man seemed to realize that, because he suddenly started talking about things that were completely unrelated to the topic at hand; he started telling me about his favorite bands and favorite movies and for some reason, the fear subsided. My breathing evened out, and my hands grew still at my sides. I started calming down a little; and after some time, I could even look him in the eyes. I found that he had quite nice eyes, when they weren’t sparkling with anger or burning with rage. When there was no glint of evil in them – when he was completely still, focused on something beyond my understanding. 

The bend of his mask suggested that he was smiling. 

“-and when I was ten, I moved to Ohio, where my father started working at your dad’s company-” He took a short break, his eyes widening. “Shit, what the fuck am I doing?” he asked, but it seemed like he was talking to himself rather than me, therefore I let him jump up from the bed and rush out of the room, leaving me to lie down on the bed and count the cracks in the ceiling to forget a little. 

The light falling into the room through the window had started growing weaker and weaker as the man had talked, and now I could see the sun almost disappearing behind the hills in the distance.


	7. Part Two: II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am truly amazed. Guys, this story has so many hits already, it is absolutely insane.   
> Thank you's so much for all the support, I love you all so much!   
> I hope you're having a good day (or night, since I'm technically cheating cause it's literally half past one in the morning so I'm not even updating on a Tuesday, but I figured I'd get away with it since in 'murica, it's still Tuesday) and if not, brighten up. There's always something nice to live for. And I love you.   
> M

This time, it only took the man five meals to return. 

For a second, I wondered if it was odd that I was basically counting the seconds until my own kidnapper, the person holding me captive against my will, the person that had raised their hand and punched me in the face, would return and talk to me, but I blamed it on the fact that there was no other stable horizontal line in my life at the time being. There was nothing else that kept me at least halfway sane, there was nothing at all that brought some kind of stability into the routine of staring at the walls in the room and imagining what it would feel like to have a cigarette dangling from my lips or a big gulp of vodka cooling my throat from the inside. Maybe some pills to ease the pain, numb me down. 

It was a few days until I awoke from my lightly unnerving half-sleep that never gave me any kind of satisfaction for no apparent reason I could fathom, when suddenly, I heard arguing and yelling outside the room that I was locked into. 

“I don’t fucking _know_ , man,” yelled Pete, and a shudder crept though my shoulders. I was able to tell apart their voices, through a door. I had been here long enough to make out a difference in the colors of their tones, the way the rolled the R or how they pronounced certain words – how harshly they popped their Ps and Ts or how quick they were to use swears. 

“Then do something about it,” said the other voice. It was one that I didn’t recognize, and that only threw me off track, frankly. I had expected another argument between Pete and the red haired man about the boy named ‘Patrick’, whom they talked about quite a lot, but I most certainly hadn’t expected someone else in the picture. The thought of only two men, two insultingly casual men, who had decided to play dress up and pretend to be Robin Hood, had screwed itself deeply into my brain stem, where it had no chance of ever being erased. 

When the third voice manifested out of thin air, however, everything was wiped clean yet again, everything back to the status quo. 

What if this was not only the doing of two men viewing themselves as some kind of selfless saviors? What if this was actually an organized crime; what if all they’d been talking about was just a way to lead me on? What if there was no Patrick? What if this was all just a way for them to get me to sympathize with them?

All they were was wretched, appalling scum, trying to get to my money, my father’s money, I told myself. I should not have believed a single word they would ever say. 

“I can’t,” said Pete, his voice sounding small and muffled. There was something restraining his voice; like he was holding back tears. “He doesn’t have a lot of time left, and there’s no fucking trace of the money.” 

“Calm down, Pete,” said the other voice. It was deep, dark and reassuring. Full and brown. “We’re going to get the money on time, and Patrick is going to get out alive, all right?” There was a sound that resembled a hum of agreement, and the other man continued speaking. “It’s going to be just fine; and now go and distract yourself. I’ll take the next shift.” 

Footsteps were retreating, and then nothing. 

A car engine started up and vanished in the distance, and nothing. 

I sat there, doing nothing. 

Nothing. 

Nothing at all. 

-

The boredom had started to manifest physically over last few meals, slowly finding its way through my body and thickening until it was graspable, thick. An unnerving presence of assailing persistence. 

I was sitting there, and my head was aching with utterly horrible pain; it was excruciating. My feet were hurting from remaining in the same position for an eternity and my wrists were still bruised from the handcuffs they’d put me in earlier – I didn’t even know how many days of weeks ago. 

Aside from the painful throbbing in my skull, there was the vague shape of a need, a craving inside my gut. For quite some time, I wondered what it might be, at first stamping it off as the want to escape, but later on realizing that I craved something other than the fulfillment for my birthright of freedom: distraction. 

When I had been free, away from these maniacs, away from this self-alluring scum, I had always had some kind of way of distracting myself from everything that was going on in my head. The replacement that my father had sought for my mother kept a quite impressive supply of sleeping pills in the drawer of her bedside table, enough that it wasn’t too noticeable when a few of the bottles went missing. 

Swallowing the pills dry had given me a certain satisfaction, something that felt like being wrapped up in a soft, marshmallow-like cloud, kept away from all danger and threat. 

I called these nights the ‘white nights’ in my head, cause they were the only times when I could sleep soundly without dreams haunting me and robbing me of the last bit of calm and quiet that I had left. When I couldn’t get my hands on the pills, I usually relied on the method of ethanol, combined with ejaculations, preferably in the presence of young girls and boys that I barely knew and would very likely never see again, or some kind of smoke that would wrap a fuzzy curtain around my thoughts and deeply bury me in a land where sorrow and pain didn’t exist. 

The craving beneath my skin was getting almost unbearable, growing stronger every day that I didn’t feed the urge. 

I didn’t know why I was doing this, to be honest – it was a little strange to me, considering the vague shadows of the discomfort taking over my body when my mother had come home from work smelling faintly of alcohol and my sister had returned from her nights out with multiple boys and girls in a bed. 

I didn’t know why I was willing to sacrifice any decency that I had left in my body, but I was willing to – I was willing to make that sacrifice in order to be like them; be the way that people had always wanted me to be. 

I didn’t know what it was about the lingering scent of alcohol that kept me sane, but I guess it was the feeling of comfort, it was home to me. 

I remembered nights when my mother had hugged me, the strong vodka stench burning into my nose until I was crying and she held me until it was over, saying things like ‘I’m sorry’ or ‘It’ll get better, I promise’. 

Alcohol was home, and parties were my personality. 

I had nothing else, so I needed to cling onto that. 

It’s ‘Sex, Drugs & Rock’n’Roll’ for a reason.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (also, please excuse me for being absolutely unable to make chapters with normal lengths and have the chapter lenghts be consistent. I am very bad at that. don't judge me.)


	8. Part Two: III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi everyone!   
> I hope you're all doing good, because I'm having a little bit of a breakdown right now and this is something that I just really need to ask you's: did anyone else hear D.I.E.P.I.G. by Stray from the Path? Because I hadn't until about five minutes ago, and I looked into the background story and it made me sick. And that is a questiong that I kind of want to ask you all, if it's no bother, but could anyone tell me what's their take on the whole situation? Just out of curiousity, really.   
> Do you think it's okay for the public to be aware of things like that? Do you think it's okay for us, as the fans, to judge people like Front Porch Step for doing these things? Do you think it's our right?   
> I'm sorry for just throwing this out there, I just kind of had to, it's been bothering so much and I just really want to hear someone else's opinion.   
> Anyways, as always thank you for taking about time to read my stories, I am truly amazed at how fast this is getting hits, and have a very nice day y'all! :) (despite the fact that I just threw out a super serious topic, sorry)   
> I love you all, peace out   
> M

The red haired man came back one day. 

He seemed a little rushed, and I couldn’t help but notice that something about him seemed off – he didn’t seem to care whether I could see his eyes looking soft and wet, like he had been weeping, or whether I could hear him calling Pete into the room to help him with cleaning the scratches I’d made in my sleep. 

My dreams had been exceptionally haunting tonight: Images of cars rushing through the rain, crashing together into a huge pile of steel and blood, all the people buried beneath and dying slowly while no one was doing anything about it. 

I didn’t know why they even bothered cleaning the nervously self-inflicted wounds, though – I was nothing to them. They could care less if I hurt myself. 

“Get away from me, you disgusting pieces of shit,” I snapped at the two of them, but it sounded half-hearted. It didn’t sound angry enough, rather a kind request than an order. 

Even I didn’t really believe this anymore. 

No one replied, though, and they left the room as quick as possible to them. I knew that they didn’t want to be around me – some part of me understood why, but I was refusing to listen to it. 

After another three meals, the red haired man entered the room yet again and sat down on the ground a few feet away from me. 

-

“Do you know what being poor feels like?” 

Pause. 

“Fuck off, scum.”

Pause. 

Scowl. 

“Let me tell you a story.” 

Pause. 

Collects himself. 

“There once was a technician at Albert Joseph’s company. He was a happy, hardworking man, he’d raised four children on his own, everything seemed to go fine and dandy for him – until one day, he found out a big secret.” 

Pause. 

“’What secret?’, you may ask. You think you know all that your father did, you think you’re aware of all the deals with shady businessmen that he did in his back room; even better, you think they don’t exist.”

Pause. 

“What this technician did not know was that this little piece of information that he so unwillingly gathered, however, cost him his job, and damn near his life. When he was going through the files that he had found this ‘secret’ in, a very large man appeared behind him and dragged him out of the room.”

Pause. 

“That day, the man lost everything. His entire existence went down the drain. He had two sons and two daughters to nurture, but they were basically left to rot in misery because their father couldn’t even afford a warm meal for them. Hell, he could barely afford even one warm meal per day for himself, let alone feed four more greedy mouths.”

Pause. 

“The elder of his sons finally dropped out of high school to help his father earn money because he couldn’t handle high school and work at the same time.” 

Pause. 

“This man’s life, and the future of his children, was ruined by your father, because your father is involved with the bad crowds.” 

Pause. 

“And what does that have to do with me?” 

Pause. 

“Or you, for that matter?”

Pause.

Sounds weak. 

Vulnerable. 

Sorry.

“It’s just a lesson you should learn.” 

Pause. 

Angry. 

Stares. 

“This man lost everything he had in his life that he had built up for himself because your father was oh so deadly afraid of people finding out about his rather…rather unconventional shipments from other countries – he didn’t give a crap about the lives he destroyed.” 

Pause. 

“You disgust me.” 

Pause. 

“Why?” 

Pause. 

Clears his throat. 

“Because you deserved all the bad things coming to you in your life.” 

Pause.

“You like to tell yourself that you’re better than me because your father has a lot of money.” 

Pause. 

“Well, you’re not.” 

Pause. 

“You’re just like me, I’m just like you.”

Pause. 

“You are who you are, and not what the world around you makes you.” 

End. 

Pause. 

“I don’t believe you.”

Pause. 

“Your façade is breaking down, Tyler Joseph.” 

End. 

\- 

Now I was sure of it, the loneliness and reclusiveness had done nothing good for my sanity. 

I was slowly but surely losing my mind. 

Something about the pity in the stories the man was telling me had driven me to believe what he was saying; that he was, in fact, a decent person that had taken very many wrong turns. 

When I looked at him, I no longer saw the person that had forced me into a van and kept me locked in a cage for weeks, maybe even months, but the person who was willing to take the most extreme risks to save his friend. 

He slowly and surely became more of a graspable character, something of proximity and texture. The distance in between us was shrinking as well as the distaste from my side. Something inside the two of us had changed, something had told us to finally look at each other as if we were on the same level. I didn’t know why, or what, but it had happened – even though I was trying to fight it. 

-

“I hate you.” 

Pause.

“Stop pretending, Tyler.” 

Pause. 

“You don’t hate me.” 

Pause. 

“You hate yourself.” 

End.


	9. Part Two: IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi!   
> thanks for the replies that I got on the last chapter, it was really interesting to read what you thought! (well, replY, as in singular, but thanks anyways :))  
> I hope you enjoy this chapter.   
> have a very nice day/night and let me know what you think!   
> M

It was about three meals later that I saw the new face for the first time. He was a very tall man with curly dark hair and protruding eyes that seemed to stand out of his skull a little; and there was something relaxed and chilled about him. He was bringing me food and didn’t talk to me, but he threw me a small smile and left. There was no ulterior motive behind the smile, no alluring pity and no enraging curiosity. Merely smiles, like he was trying to brighten up my day with something as small as that, and even though it seemed slightly stupid, I enjoyed his company very much. 

The man wasn’t wearing a mask, like he didn’t care whether I saw his face or not. 

He sometimes gave me a look that suggested he knew something that I didn’t, that suggested that he saw something in me that I had been desperately trying to hide from others. 

He brought me the next three meals as well; and the third time, he finally opened his mouth. 

-

“I don’t think you’re a bad person, you know.” 

Pause. 

“You’ve just been very unlucky.” 

Pause. 

“I mean, first you have this awful excuse for a father, and then the thing that happened with your mother – you’re not a bad guy, Joseph.” 

Pause. 

“You have no idea what you’re talking about.” 

Pause. 

“Oh, I think I do.” 

Pause. 

“You’re a good guy.” 

Pause. 

“Fuck off, scum.”

Pause. 

“Don’t be so hard on Josh.” 

Pause. 

“Hard on whom?” 

Pause. 

Slaps his hand over his mouth. 

“Shit.” 

Storms out. 

-

It took me a few moments to connect the dots and realize that he was talking about the red haired man, that this man’s name was Josh. 

It suited him – it sounded angry and a little tired at the same time, just like the guy behind it. It sounded like something that could, at the same time, be very dark, very menacing but comforting in some ways. The name Josh sounded like a character from a book that, at first, seemed like a quite generic and likeable character, but the more you dive in, the more you realize the actual depth and diversity of him. 

Later that day, the curly haired friendly man came in again, this time keeping his mouth firmly shut. 

-

It wasn’t until five meals later that ‘Josh’ returned. For some reason, it felt slightly odd to me to think of him as a name rather than ‘the kidnapper’ or ‘the red haired man’. The personification was strange and foreign, therefore I settled on sticking to the nicknames I had made up, merely because I felt that Josh was not the person who had kidnapped me. I heard him and the third man whose name I didn’t know yet yelling in the hallways; obviously about the man slipping Josh’s name into a conversation. 

-

“Why the fuck were you even talking about me?” 

Pause. 

“I wanted to tell him that, in reality, you’re a good guy and he should forgive you for being so horrible to him.” 

Pause. 

“Well, clearly, he hasn’t called _you_ ‘worthless scum’ yet.” 

Pause. 

Clears his throat. 

Lowers his voice. 

“Have you read the papers?” 

Pause. 

“Yeah.” 

Pause. 

“But just because it hasn’t always been easy for him, he doesn’t have the right to push others around.” 

Pause.

“Just…cut him some slack, will you?” 

End. 

-

Suddenly, everything behind my eyes looked so blurry, and I was now more than ever in dire need of something to take my mind off things with. I missed the sweet burn of alcohol slipping through my body, forcing me into something of a comforting daze that would take me back to the days where everything had been alright still, the days when my mother had been alive. I missed the smoke wafting through the air in front of me in beautiful clouds, I missed the numbing feeling of meaningless sexual relations that kept my false self-love upright; with whispered compliments of my curves and edges and soft touches guiding themselves along my long-gone scars. I missed it all so much; I missed the peace and quiet that all the noise would bring me. 

There was nothing inside me anymore now that the things that had made me had been taken from me. 

\- 

“I can’t remember my mother.” 

Pause. 

“She left straightaway after my little brother was born, and my dad raised us all on his own.”

Pause. 

“We grew up somewhere in Ohio, in a tiny house with a nice picket fence, and everything seemed to be careless, just fine – until the day that Albert Joseph found my father snooping through the files on his desk after he’d seen something odd going down.” 

Pause. 

“We lost everything that day.” 

Pause. 

Clears his throat. 

“We barely had any money, and I dropped out of high school to help my father earn enough money for my siblings to have enough to eat.” 

Pause. 

“I missed my prom.” 

Pause. 

“Because of your father’s greed.” 

End. 

-

There was something that felt like electricity between the red haired man and me. 

The second that he would get close to me, something inside my chest would start thumping and dancing, twisting away from him but at the same time, urging me toward him. The something turned larger and larger every time we spoke. 

I didn’t know whether these were still feelings of resentment, of disgust for his mere existence – or excitement at his presence. 

We spoke often, to be honest; the man came to give me food more frequently, and he would tell me stories about his life, what his favorite music was, and why he thought that America should have a better health care system. 

It took me a long time to realize that part of me was besotted with the thought of him being a fairly alright person, someone who didn’t deserve all the things the world had coming for them. 

There was one particular day that was profoundly engraved into my memory, woven deeply with the bases of my spine where it would never be able to fully disappear. 

-

“You know what pisses me the fuck off?” 

Pause. 

No reply. 

Of course not. 

“It pisses me off how shallow people have become, that’s what.”

Pause. 

“They look at me and think ‘whoa, he’s just another piece of shit punk who doesn’t know any sort of respect and will spit on anything and anyone in his way’. Because I have fucking red hair, or what?” 

Pause. 

“Because of the tattoo sleeve, or what?” 

Pause. 

“I just fucking hate how judgmental people are, like they don’t have any mistakes. You see people on the street and you start to build yourself an opinion about what they look like, how their shirt doesn’t match their shoes and their faces look weird with that makeup – but does anyone realize that it might not be any of their business?” 

Pause. 

Raises his eyebrows. 

“We all go snooping around like the smartest people in the world, like we fucking know what’s up. Like every single person in the world is so fucking easy to figure out, like everyone is just like a fucking book character, with a name and a hair color and nothing that goes deeper than that. People are people, and why are we judging each other by the way we look? You would’ve thought that we’d have gotten smarter over the decades, learn not to judge a book by its cover, learn to go deeper than the surface, but no – it’s been getting fucking worse.” 

Pause. 

“And that’s why I freak you out so much, you can’t see my face, and that’s weird as fuck because you have no chance to start up some kind of prejudiced opinion factory that tells you exactly what to think of me doing certain things.” 

Pause. 

“You don’t know shit about me.”

Pause. 

“And that’s what’s killing you.” 

End.


	10. Part Two: V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi!   
> I hope you like this chapter, thanks so much for the comments that I got on the last one, you guys are the best :)  
> Hopefully, you'll have a better day than me,   
> I love y'all, peace out  
> M

My head had started twitching to the side in short, erratic spams, yanking my bones with it and making the back of my neck ache with the sudden movement. I could feel my arms move on their own accord, sneaking up to start scratching at my arms, and this time, I didn’t stop them. 

At some point, the door fell open. 

I suddenly realized that I had been screaming – I just hadn’t noticed because of the rustling paper sound in my ears; I hadn’t come to my senses. They were all blocked by something, the sound in my ears, the light in my eyes, the pain in my nose keeping me from even breathing. 

My fingers were raking down my body, drawing blood almost immediately since the other wounds were still fresh, and my head was thumping with pain. 

The red haired man named Josh whipped his head around as he saw me, panic immediately masking his invisible features. He came toward me, and I crawled back and up against the wall, everything to bring as much distance between us as possible – but it was no use, he kept coming closer and closer until his hands were laid on my shoulders, his eyes firmly staring into mine. His gaze was like iron, flat and firm and hard and not budging in the slightest. I was reminded strongly of the last time this happened, and the panic immediately grew, feeding on the vulnerability added to the scene, feeding on the fact that I knew this man would never forget what he would see now. 

I kept trying to look away; short, bolting movements forcing me to twist and thrash around beneath his grip. I refused to meet his gaze. I didn’t want to. His eyes were lying when they told me that I could trust them. They were lying when they said they were telling the truth. My body was shriveling away from his hands, but they kept following me, persecuting me with my every move and not letting go of my shoulders; always a firm grasp around the boney joints. 

My fingers started prodding at his muscular arms, anything to get him off me, to rid myself of the warm presence on my shoulders. Something was forcing my bones to twist away every time he tried to touch, bring any sort of contact between his hands and my body. 

“Tyler,” he said, his voice strong and firm, like the rock in an ocean of painfully thrashing waves. The only calm stable. 

I shook my head almost violently, still refusing to meet his gaze. So he slid his hands down and tightly gripped my wrists, his eyes still burning holes into my cheeks where I had turned my head away from him. He didn’t let go of me, kept me from continuing to scratch my itch. The horrible itch that I had never been able to find a cure for; for years it had kept itching and itching and itching until I had no other choice but to scratch. 

“Tyler,” he said, out of a sudden sounding quiet and calming. His voice was firm like his hands, somewhat unreachable. All the vindictiveness from earlier had disappeared, though, made room for something soft and compassionate living behind the anger in the red haired man’s eyes. 

It was like at this moment, we weren’t us. 

The kidnapper named Josh wasn’t my kidnapper, wasn’t cruel scum keeping me locked up in a tiny chamber somewhere in a place that no one would recognize as a prison cell; instead, he was the calming constant of my life breaking me down from one of my attacks of sudden pain and fear and anxiety. He was not the person putting me through misery, he was not poor at this moment, he was an even opponent. 

I, on the other hand, wasn’t the son of a rich industrial boss, I was merely a pained boy who had seen too many things in his life and felt too many things that he shouldn’t have felt. I was a boy who had the wrong mechanisms for coping with problems. 

He wasn’t poor, nor was I rich. 

At this moment, we were even – on the same eye level. 

I had a weak moment, and let myself look in his eyes. 

Something in the man’s eyes gave me a feeling, deep in my gut, that said to trust him.

For some reason, I did. 

“Tyler,” he repeated once more, even softer and quieter this time. 

I had no idea how long I had been staring at his eyes when I started snaking my wrists out of his grip to wipe the disgusting blood off my forearms onto my dirty shirt. 

My mother had given me this shirt. 

It had been a nice shirt; very white and clean. Now, it was ragged and torn and stained with a mixture of dirt, sweat and blood. 

It was stained with poverty. 

Suddenly, Josh did something quite unexpected: He opened his arms, and I impulsively fell forward, leaning on him and wrapping myself around his middle tightly until his hands started lightly stroking up and down my back. 

“Tyler,” he said one last time, and I nodded, the side of my face rubbing against his damp tee-shirt. I didn’t know why it was wet, until I noted that the wetness was also coating my face – I was crying. 

I didn’t know how long we remained in that position, me desperately clinging onto the man who had kidnapped and hurt me and him trying to give me some sort of comfort. 

It might have been hours or days that we spent there, leaning against each other and breathing our presence in, existing alongside one another without wanting to make the other something that they weren’t. 

Eventually, the man led me out of the room and down the corridor, past a slightly dumbfounded Pete, and into a bathroom. I was quick to rid myself of my dirty clothes and jump under the hot shower after I had made sure I was alone and there was no way he could see me. After about ten minutes, the door creaked open and the red haired man slipped in to leave me a change of clothes on the closed toiled seat, informing that he would be coming to get me in five more minutes and that I should make it quick. 

Therefore, I hurried to dry myself off and slip into the fresh clothes. They had a slightly smoky scent to them, not in an unclean way, but in a way where someone had washed them several times, desperate to get the smell out, but their own scent had settled so deeply into the fibers of the fabric that every single one of their belongings smelt of it. 

The jeans were a little too long for me, so I folded the hem up until they were leaving my knuckles bare. The shirt was one that most certainly belonged to the kidnapper; it was dark with a slightly disturbing print on it.

The fabric felt soft against my skin. 

I liked it. 

-

The lips on mine felt so soft, almost like the ones of the man that I was making out with right before…before it happened, before I was dragged into the van. They were pressed flush against mine, protruding and wanting, demanding control. 

I put up a fight, but I knew there was no winning against him – I knew there was no losing for him, to be precise. 

Something about the way that he kissed made me feel safe, guarded, calm. Everything about him was calming for some reason, though, like there was an air around him that made him immune to restlessness and anxiety. 

Therefore, I merely let it happen, I let him push himself close to me, and a part of me even enjoyed it. 

-

“Stop acting like you know everything.” 

Pause. 

“You know nothing, you’re just scum.” 

Pause. 

“It’s your own fault, your own, and no one else’s.” 

Pause. 

“You don’t believe that.” 

Pause. 

“I know you don’t.” 

Pause. 

“Stop acting like you’re a bad person.” 

End. 

-

The man that had kidnapped me slowly but surely dissolved and eventually coalesced into a heap of indecisiveness. I didn’t know what to make of him anymore. 

He was split in half, as if one part of him were the loving, gentle person that I heard through his stories of the life of a young boy named Josh who basically had to nurture his family from the age of fifteen on. It was infatuating, to say the least, to think that this man, the red-haired kidnapper who had violently torn me away from my freedom, was this person. 

Maybe a part of me hoped that if all the things he was talking about were true, I was going to get out of this mess alive and be able to move on.   
But the bigger, more rational part of my brain kept reminding the other half that there was nothing keeping this man from lying to me. He had done nothing but put me through physical pain and horrible verbal abuse, and I couldn’t keep myself from hating what he stood for – the fact that there is no line between being rich and being poor.

-

“Why did you kiss me?” 

Pause. 

“Because I wanted to.” 

Pause. 

“Why did you want to?”

Pause. 

“Because you looked like you needed it.” 

Pause. 

“No.”

Pause. 

“You’re more vulnerable than you think, Tyler Joseph.”

End. 

-

It was another day of a certain restlessness that kept me awake and slightly agitated, in a way where it was impossible for me to focus on anything other than the fact that everything was wrong. 

There was a sheen of light creeping in through the window, therefore I figured it was around noon and Josh would soon arrive to give me food. 

I didn’t know what it was, but some kind of anxiety kept me biting my nails and softly smoothing down the scratches made on my arms with my hands every other second. I didn’t know what was wrong or why my body was telling me to run away from everything, but I knew that there was something, and I needed to follow this instinct. 

It was impossible for me to run, though, because the door was locked tightly and there was no possible escape route for me. 

Suddenly, said door banged open and in walked a tall figure, face obscured by the usual black ski mask and eyes piercing through the holes as if they were looking for something, or rather someone.

The man looked tired and annoyed, and for some reason, that made me wonder what had gotten him this…this emotional, out of a sudden. 

I was soon to find out, though, because he almost immediately sat down on the floor in front of me. After a few minutes of meaningless staring, he opened his mouth beneath the mask to talk. 

-

“Patrick is almost dead.” 

Pause. 

“He’s too weak to even eat on his own, he can’t hold a fucking fork.” 

Pause. 

“I don’t want him to die, Tyler.” 

Pause. 

“I can’t lose another person to your father.” 

End. 

-

The man was gone as quickly as he had arrived. The second he’d spat out the last words, he was up and sprinting toward the door with long legs, ripping it open and almost breaking the handle in the process of leaving the room. 

Yet again, I was alone in this prison, wondering what had driven the man to say such things. 

I didn’t know where the lines had faded out exactly, but I knew that for some reason, I cared for what he was feeling. There was no subjective matter to it, I didn’t particularly want him to be fine, but there was a general interest in the way that he would talk and speak and use his anger to express himself. 

This man, Josh, was slowly and surely growing into a human being rather than a supernatural force holding me captive in this room. 

-

There was something quite infuriating, albeit capturing, about the amount of audacity this man possessed. 

He was loud and angry and soft and vulnerable and I hated him. 

I hated him with a burning passion. 

I hated him for the fact that he was partly making me forget who he was and, more importantly, who I was. I was the son of Albert Joseph, I was a purely innocent boy who had been wrongfully imprisoned by this…this monster. 

As much as I tried keeping that thought in the front of my mind, I was lacking the usual fierceness. It slipped back into the barely used regions, collapsing together and hiding behind other unimportant things, merely to spite me. There was no proof of this man being a bad person anymore. He had brought me an old television into the room, even plugged it in and all. He had started giving me food that was more edible than the floppy sandwiches, and I had started acting civil toward him. 

There was no line anymore, nothing dividing rich and poor. 

One day, Josh entered the room with something of a smug smile imprinted on his usual ski mask. He kneeled down on the ground before the bed, rolled up the mask to his nose and kissed me. 

I didn’t really like the feeling of his lips against mine; there was slight stubble scratching my chin and his hands were gripping my neck just a little too roughly. His lips were too soft and not soft enough. 

It took me more than it probably should’ve to finally realize the origin of his motives – he was being decent. He was helping me distract, helping me to keep my mind occupied. Helping me to keep my mind from running in overdrive, helping me to keep my arms from shooting up and starting to scratch. He was, in a very strange, twisted way, helping me with this. 

Therefore, I ignored everything that bothered me and started slowly giving in to the kiss, melting my lips against his and letting my body fall forward, giving him trust that I knew he hadn’t earned. 

His lips suddenly went much softer against mine, however still not giving in – a never ending battle between the two of us, and I gladly breathed in the scent of smoke his tongue was radiating. 

My so dearly beloved distraction, smoke softly curling into my lungs and polluting my airways, meaningless kisses fogging up my mind so no single clear thought would be able to be formed. The only thing missing was the one thing that helped me keep my mind down, keep all the thoughts to a minimum, get the angry voice in the back of my head yelling disgusted insults to shut up. I missed drinking, I missed popping whatever pills I could get my hands on – I missed feeling numb over something as easy as this. 

But this, this was good enough for now. 

I fully let myself be thrown into the kiss, giving Josh all my body weight and the pent up emotions stored away in the back of my head.

Later that day, I asked him for a cigarette, and he handed me a pack of Marlboro Reds. 

-

Josh was like these wordless characters in a book that not even the author themselves could ever define if given the chance. There was nothing distinct about him, nothing that stood out among the other things. Not because there was not a remarkable thing about him, but because everything was remarkable. 

He was split in two, and I was beginning to ask myself which side I liked better: The side that kissed me to keep me from thinking, or the side that yelled at me to quit being my arrogant self. 

One thing, though, I couldn’t deny in the slightest: I was drawn toward him. 

Both sides of him.


	11. Part Three: I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all so much, I love you's :)  
> M

It took me almost two meals to realize what had happened. 

During the attack, I had felt even more hopeless than other times. It was like my sensed had been cut off to an extent where I barely took notice of my surroundings anymore. There had been nothing distinct, merely shapes and colors moving around – except the red haired man. 

He was the stable, the only horizontal line, keeping me somewhat attached to my mind, to reality. He was everything that wasn’t blurry, the only body of shape and texture. He was what was keeping me from losing the rusty remnants of my sanity. He was the divine superiority that had the power to break me down, and only now I realized the extent of my trust toward him – my oh so unreasonable, disgustingly undeserved trust. 

Something in my head had started referring to him as ‘Josh’, but the bigger, more normal part of me was refusing to do anything that would justify him as a fellow human being and not just the dirt under my shoes. The reason why I was caught. Caught and raided of myself, raided of everything that made me who I was. 

He was not my knight in shining armor, had done nothing that would explain why I would think so. 

All he had done was say my name and look at me, bury me deep inside his gaze and wait for me to calm down as I would stare him down. All he had done was press his lips against mine in a desperate attempt to recreate my life, my own life, the one where I wouldn’t wake up scratching open my scars. He was giving me just this edge of normality that I had been missing for weeks, possibly months, even – he was giving me what I needed, nonetheless, he was the enemy. 

He was the reason why I had lost sleep, damn near lost my mind. 

But when the man had appeared and said my name, something had started to change – something had started to become calmer, more collected, more understandable. Out of a sudden, because of this man’s mere presence, I had felt safe and sound. 

My heart started beating rapidly as I thought of the recently occurred twists and turns of this odd plot that was my life – I didn’t like the way that this was going, not at all. 

In fact, it made me more than a little uneasy to think that the kidnapper seemed to be my only lifeline. 

There still had been no trace of ransom whatsoever, though. There was no prospect of getting away, and maybe that was why my mind had sought comfort in this man; I felt reassured by something that would certainly not leave. This man – Josh – would, under no circumstances, turn his attention away from me and toward anyone else. 

Of course, the more rational side of my brain started fighting, saying things like ‘what the fuck, he’s a lunatic’ and ‘stay away from that maniac’, but it lacked the custom venom – not a trace of my disgust for him and his likes was left. 

I vaguely remembered reading something about the ‘Stockholm Syndrome’, where the victims of kidnappers fall in love with the criminals due to the extreme force that they have in that moment – and for a few seconds, I wondered if I had been affected by it. If I’d fallen in love, simply on the basis of feeling safe with a man that was forceful, powerful, superior to all. 

However, I pushed the thought away almost as quickly as it had surfaced, deeming it way too ridiculous to be true. 

-

It didn’t take very long for the kidnapper to return this time. 

The day, or night, was still young and it looked like the sunrise, or sunset, had only just started when I awoke from a disturbingly deep slumber – it could’ve been noon too, to be honest. My sense of time had been almost erased from being held captive for so long. Everything was grey, mashed into a mess of color and blurring shapes. 

However, the red haired man walked into the room with what could’ve been a smile. There was something loving about it, and for a second, I wondered what had driven him to such sudden fondness of me, until he sat down in front of me. 

I gulped as I saw the anger in his knuckles, the sarcasm coursing through his face. I saw that he was not here for idle chatter. 

There was something calculating in his gaze as he opened his mouth to pose the question. 

-

“What happened to you?”

Pause. 

Muster.

Raised eyebrows. 

“I was kidnapped.”

Pause. 

“I meant in 2009.” 

Pause. 

Gaze tightening. 

Angry. 

Refusing to reply. 

“I read the newspaper that day. They said your mother died of her injuries after the crash and that you had to be admitted into psychological care because of some sort of breakdown you suffered.”

Pause. 

Angry. 

Arrogant. 

“Oh, so you could afford the newspaper?” 

Pause. 

Smirk.

“That won’t work today.” 

Pause. 

“Before that day, you stated in an interview that the whole playboy lifestyle, sex, drugs & rock’n’roll really wasn’t your cup of tea.” 

Pause. 

“You were this sweet little boy, wearing a chastity ring.”

Pause. 

“And then I found you, drunk off your ass and high on some kind of drug, in bed with two guys and a girl.” 

Pause.

“What changed in between?” 

Pause. 

Angry? 

“Leave me alone, you smell like unwashed clothes and dirty streets.” 

Pause. 

“Let me tell you a little something, Tyler Joseph.” 

Pause. 

“You do, too.” 

-

It took me a long time of breathing heavily and angrily to realize that, in fact, this man was right. I smelt of stale, infected air, with no trace of the usually so soft smoke air, the expensive cologne that I carried. I felt like scum. I felt like I was not doing myself justice by almost having settled into this strange rhythm that this man had forced me into. 

I felt the anger at myself rise in my throat again, the little bits of rationality left in my head punching and kicking and screaming at me for trusting him so much, for trusting him to not pose the one question even I, myself, was unable to answer. 

The stale taste in my mouth intensified as I looked down at him from the bed I was sat on, and my expression transformed into one of pure anger. 

-

“And it’s your own fault.” 

Pause. 

Evil smirk. 

“You’re poor like I am, you’re poor like Pete and Joe are. You’re poor, and there’s no way for you to get out of it.” 

Pause. 

Smirk grows sad around edges.

“You’re not better than me.” 

Pause. 

“It’s not my fault.” 

Pause. 

Angry?!

“But that’s what you always say, isn’t it? That it’s my own fault that I’m poor, that I’ve done it all to myself. That I fucked up and now I’m poor, just like any other poor person.”

Pause. 

“Or do you think that for some reason, those rules don’t apply for you?”

Pause. 

Smirk. 

“This is something different.” 

Pause. 

Angry! 

“I was fucking _kidnapped_ by a couple of guys playing Robin Hood dress up – this is not my fault at all.” 

Pause. 

Angry.

“But if you hadn’t been such a fucking asshole, we maybe would’ve taken your brother, or your sister.”

Pause. 

“What, because you think they’d be more valuable to my father?” 

Pause. 

Voice slipping. 

Painful. 

Angry? 

-

My hands started moving, twitching, reaching up to prod at the old wounds and even older scars – they were searching to put me through another attack of this invisible illness, I could feel it.   
All because of him, all because of the man who was desperately trying to mislead me into trusting him, to get me to form a strange kind of fondness for this horrible excuse for a human being. It was all Josh’s fault, and the anger inside me rose to inexplicable extents, blowing up and filling every part of my body with blinding rage. 

-

“Yes, I do think that.” 

Pause. 

“And you took me because?” 

Pause.

“I have a personal distaste for people like you. You think you’re just so amazing; solely because your father is really fucking rich, and that gives you the right to fuck with anyone and anything you want.”

Pause. 

“And you decided you want to kidnap me because of that.”

Pause. 

“The plan was to take your brother Zack, but he seemed like a decent guy.” 

Pause. 

“You kidnapped me instead of my brother because you think that I’m a bad person?” 

Pause. 

“Basically.”

Pause.

“We didn’t even want to take you, we didn’t want to take anyone. We didn’t want to hurt anyone. But we want to save Patrick’s life, and we desperately need the money – I don’t think you get the urgency, though, you have had everything shoved up your pretty little ass all your life.”   
Pause. 

“You hate me because my life is easy?” 

Pause. 

“You hate me because my life is hard.”

End.


	12. Part Three: II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey everyone!   
> first off, thanks so much for reading and for the kudos :)   
> secondly, I sadly have to tell you that there will be no updates until next Sunday. I'm going on a school trip and I won't be able to take my laptop with me, so you'll have to wait - I'm sorry for the inconvenience, usually, I'm pretty reliable when it comes to punctuality with updates.   
> Anyways, thanks for reading and have a lovely day  
> i love you all  
> peace out   
> M

This man was such a strange person. 

It was like there was a line dividing his mind, one side being the horrible demonic voice inside him that enjoyed inflicting pain on others and the other angelic choir that was pitiful and loving and caring; the side of himself he’d only shown me when it was strictly necessary. 

It was such a strange thing, though – I could not, not for the life of me, figure out which side was the ‘true’ Josh. Was he a good guy gone bad or a bad guy pretending to be a good guy at times? There was nothing to determine the answer by, he kept changing his moods as he went, as if two different people lived inside his head, constantly fighting for dominance and never giving in to the other. 

Was the story that he had told me about not wanting to hurt anyone true? Were they really only doing this to save their friend Patrick in some kind of heroic gesture? Or was it all pretend and they were psychopaths looking to make me doubt my own head? 

And, most importantly, was I rich, or was I poor? 

Was I the person on top of the world, was I more important than them because I had money, or was I on the same eye level with them? What was I? 

Who was I? 

Perhaps he was being so nice to me because he’d read the newspaper articles, he’d read that my trial had been filed as a crazy suicidal head case; he knew of my problems and my demons, just like the rest of the world did. Everyone knew the stories, everyone knew what had happened on the outside, but no one had ever really bothered to dig deeper than that – no one had ever gotten into my head, and I considered it better off that way. 

That, to me, was the most plausible explanation; that he was feeling some strange kind of pity toward me. 

But I didn’t want pity, I’d never wanted to be pitied. Pity is something for poor people, people that can’t afford to not give a shit. Pity is something for the weak ones, like Josh apparently was.

My façade was breaking. 

I was breaking. 

-

The kisses had gotten rougher over the last few times, as if Josh had found comfort in the fact that he could live out his suppressed hatred toward me while still being able to tell himself that it was a decent thing to do. 

My mind had gotten lost somewhere between being utterly disgusted and finally finding some sense of tranquility in having a small piece of my old life back. 

Shaking limbs and rising bile in my throat aside, the kiss gave me something special, like there was nothing in the world happening other than Josh harshly pressing his lips against mine, gripping my shoulders in an attempt to keep his hands occupied; keep himself from drawing back and hitting me. All the thoughts of my father and Pete and Joe and what Josh had said about having wanted to take Zack but instead having settled on me due to my lack of sympathy had vanished into thin air, merely waiting to surface yet again – but nothing about that bothered me at the time, really. 

I was no longer in silence. 

Josh had given me noise.


	13. Part Three: III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi!   
> So...I'm back!   
> I really hope you enjoy this chapter, have a nice day! :)  
> I love y'all  
> M

Another spike of rationality hit me as the red haired man sat down on the floor in front of me yet again, willingly taking the spot below me as if to ridicule me. 

This was the man who had kidnapped me, pulled me out of the lovers I had been tied up in and taking me to a different place without me ever having agreed. 

I resented him and what he stood for. 

Nonetheless, a certain sense of calm overcame me as he approached me silently to press yet another heated kiss to my chapped lips. 

To be honest, it felt like he needed this, too. 

-

There was something slightly interesting about the way that the man looked at me. In one moment it would be a cold, calculating gaze; one that would merely pierce through me and try to make out what I was thinking, and the next second he would be gazing at me almost lovingly, as if he was scared for me when I started scratching. As if there was something inside him that very badly did not want me to hurt, that wanted me to be alright. 

The days had been drawing out into something that felt like an eternity, and the suspicion inside me arose that the story of ‘Patrick’ was completely made up and Josh and Pete were involved in human trafficking. For some reason, that concept seemed more appealing to me than the thought of the two of them sacrificing themselves in order to save their friend. The mere thought of them congratulating themselves was so disgusting that I thoroughly hoped they were lying, stealing criminals, because at least then they would be aware of the damage they were doing. 

The first time that I had the urge to escape was during nighttime, when I was laying on the bed with the TV switched on but on a very low volume, watching some crappy sitcom. My day-night rhythm had been messed up a little since I’d been taken, and I was now awake almost every night – at least I thought it was night, from what I could tell. 

And when I looked out the window, I suddenly heard a bird yelling out there in the wilderness, and I immediately started envying him. 

Started craving the feeling of wind on my skin, started craving the thought of my home, my sister and my brothers and most importantly, the thought of being free to forget, forget about everything that had happened, all the emotions that had been stirred up, and drown everything in a tall glass of Tequila Sunrise. 

The thought of finding a plan that would allow me to escape from Josh’s icy hold was fairly appealing, but something inside my gut told me that it was nearly impossible to leave this place alive and in one piece. 

Therefore, I decided sadly, there was no way to escape for me. 

-

The second time that I had the thought was during something that felt like daytime, and Josh was sitting across from me, staring into my eyes and trying to figure something out. 

He wasn’t doing anything, merely sitting on the chair in front of the little table in the corner and looking at me. His usually so warm brown eyes were piercing and they seemed like they were wanting to go right through me, or see what exact thought was troubling my mind at the moment. 

Like a small part of him knew that there was something inside me wanting something forbidden, that I had the urge to escape from his deathly grip. 

I saw the sun illuminate his undoubtedly beautiful features in orange-y rising light, and thought about how I had never fully seen his face while being conscious. 

I wanted to see his face. 

More importantly, though, I wanted to see the sun again. 

I wanted to feel the warmth on my skin, feel the cold that the moon would wrap around the world. 

Feel the warmth of some kind of alcoholic beverage slipping down my throat painfully, immediately leaving me intoxicated and uncaring of all my surroundings. 

I wanted to be free, be free to run from all my problems and leave the memories of this place behind. 

But, I concluded, it was unlikely that I would manage, even if I tried. 

-

“I used to go the playground with my sister almost every day.”

Pause. 

“We had so much fun there, like nothing in the world would ever be able to stop us from having a good time.”

Pause. 

“But there was this one day; her and I were playing hide and seek and then she found a syringe on the ground.” 

Pause. 

“I asked our dad what it was, and he never let us go there ever again.” 

Pause. 

“That was the neighborhood I grew up in.” 

Pause. 

Sad. 

Sigh. 

End. 

-

I had observed Josh long enough to realize that he was not simply a criminal, not simply evil, not simply wasting away his time pursuing his own, selfish needs – nonetheless, I felt something that resembled hate. 

No, I reminded myself, I truly hated this man. 

He had taken away the few things I’d had left; my freedom, my money, the distractions – he had purposely pulled me out of my comfortable life for nothing but his own desires, be it desires that might sound selfless to anyone, but me. 

He was a fucking prick, and I hated him. 

The urge to run away was growing with every day, prompting me to twist and turn my thoughts, looking for something that would get me out of here; something that would safely guide me home and give me back the life I had been living before all this; give me what I oh so desperately wanted. 

I was aching for a shot of something, anything to clear my mind of all thoughts. 

And then Josh came in and silenced my mind with his lips. 

-

Josh’s lips felt strange against mine. 

I was used to all kinds of kisses; mostly thereof the lustful ones, leading to nothing but mindless, meaningless sex; and a part of me associated the touching of lips with the act of fucking to forget. There had never been anything loving about the way people had kissed me, merely wanting to get off, or maybe because they wanted to tell people that they’d managed to score _Tyler fucking Joseph_ , and I had never been particularly bothered by that fact. 

I had never woken up in the morning and thought ‘man, I wish someone would love me’. 

That was not who I was. 

I was just like them, I would kiss to get off; a meaningless act of physical contact and nothing above, nothing below. 

I was who I was. 

But Josh?

What he did was almost loving, the way he would always raise his hands to tangle in my hair, to hold me close, to make sure I wouldn’t pull back. 

Stupid, I scolded myself, there was no way Josh felt anything beyond hate for me. 

And I hated him equally as much. 

-

“I want to know what happened to you.”

Pause. 

Intense stare. 

“As I have told you before, I was kidnapped by some guy playing Robin Hood dress up.” 

Pause.

“Stop fucking with me.” 

Pause. 

“Why? What are you going to do, punch me?” 

Laugh. 

Bitter.

Angry. 

“I’m not afraid of you, _Josh_.” 

Pause. 

Angry. 

Both angry. 

Very angry.

Scalding hot anger. 

“Then again, Joseph, I am the only reason why you haven’t gone insane yet.” 

Pause. 

Exhale. 

Breaks. 

Breaks slowly. 

“Who says I’m not insane already?” 

Pause. 

Snort. 

Almost a laugh. 

“I’m going to find out someday, Tyler Joseph.”

Pause. 

“You can’t play hide and seek forever.” 

End.


	14. Part Three: IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all so much for the reads and kudos and comments and everything, please keem 'em up! :)   
> M

One day, Josh took it too far. 

He walked into the room, looking slightly aggravated, but not enough to be seriously angry, and sat down in front of me. His hands found their way up to my neck and pulled me in, lips gently closing the gap and settling against mine, moving closer to mold our bodies together. 

I was past questioning him in these kinds of moments, he would come in every other day to either ask me question and end up frustratedly telling me about himself when I was refusing to answer, or kiss me until my lips were numb. 

At first, I thought he was going to stick to the latter and not even touch the former, but it didn’t take me long to figure out that this assumption could not have been any falser. 

-

“Tell me what happened, Joseph.”

Pause. 

“No.”

Pause. 

Suddenly very angry. 

Gets up. 

Punches the wall. 

“Do I have to hold a gun to your fucking head until you finally fucking break and tell me? I could make this all so much easier for you, all you have to do is tell me why the fuck you start scratching your own arms like a madman the second I say something that you don’t like!”

Pause. 

“You’re so insanely arrogant, you’re not even willing to tell other people your story so you could, I don’t fucking know, make friends or something.”

Pause. 

Snorts. 

“What, are you afraid that people will finally see that you’re not that bad of a guy?” 

Pause. 

“Or it’s the other way around and you did something really fucking horrible and get gassy thinking about it?” 

Pause. 

Snorts again. 

“I fucking hate you, Tyler Joseph.” 

Pause. 

“You think you’re so above everyone else, when in fact, you’re fucking below. Because you think you’re such a hot shot and – what – there’s probably not a single person out there, worried whether you live or die.” 

Pause. 

“Wake the fuck up, Joseph.”

Pause. 

“You’re not as special as you think you are.” 

Pause. 

Longer pause. 

Drags out. 

Until. 

“No wonder your mother fucking drank herself to death and your father buries himself in work.” 

End. 

-

Anger. 

Rage. 

Hate. 

All these words didn’t even come close to the hot burning feeling that had blown into my stomach, splattering everywhere and making it impossible for me to think clearly, to get any coherent thought out that wasn’t filled with utter…utter disgust toward Josh, toward Josh’s words, toward his face, every single fucking thing about him. 

My hands went up to scratch, this time however not my arms but his, reaching for his brightly colored skin to finally let him know what I was doing, why I was doing it and what in my life was causing me so much pain. 

But I never met his skin. 

My fingers stopped halfway there, dropping down to the ground, and I fell silent. 

I could not bear this any longer.


	15. Part Three: V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> enjoy, thanks for the reads, love you guys :)  
> M

The indefinite urge started transforming into a stronger will more and more, driving me to think.   
It was like my mind was running on overdrive; noticing so many things at once and just making me so aware of all my surroundings. It took me exactly six meals to figure out an exact plan. 

I had wracked my thoughts, forcing them to rotate in the same circles over and over again, until there was something clearer in my mind, something that had edges and curves and was not merely blurring out in to the faded lines of my other thoughts. 

I had a plan. 

I had a plan, and all the intentions to go through with it. 

-

Josh was yet again sitting on the floor when he started talking about something. He started going on and on and on about the way that he had grown up in a very poor family and Patrick and Pete had been his only friends when he was young and that he had been lucky to have them because nobody else was looking out for him – I shortly considered asking about his parents, but the few times that he had mentioned them, the tone of his voice had been flat and angry and his eyes had narrowed and there was a certain air around him that screamed that it was not a good idea to talk about it; therefore I shut up and listened to him. 

It was very difficult to listen to Josh, knowing that this was the day. 

It was going to happen. 

I was trying very hard not to shake, but on the other hand, that was only a way to make this more convincing. 

The second that Josh mentioned something about me, I turned things around. 

This time, it wasn’t my hands forcing themselves upward towards my arms to scratch at the wounded skin, it was me forcing them to do what I was telling them to. I was absolutely and one hundred percent in control, though for some reason, that scared me even more than my hands acting on their own accord. There was horrible pain shooting through my wrists as I started scratching, and I wondered why I never felt this during my attacks – maybe it was the adrenaline pumping through my veins that kept it from exploding. Kept my body from sending any signal other than ‘help’ to my brain. 

Josh looked confused at first, as if silently questioning himself whether he had said something to tip me off, and when it got worse, I didn’t have to act any more. 

I was purely anxious that this wouldn’t work out, so the panic came naturally and the short, cut off movements were the way that I usually moved – there was nothing really fake about this, in the end. The anxiety was something that always came so naturally to me, and for a second, I almost found this scenery comical – me, forcing myself into having an attack just so Josh would come close to me. 

When Josh came to comfort me, I folded myself into his muscular arms, pressing close to his warm body and burying my nose in his t-shirt. 

He bent down to press a soft kiss on the top of my head, smoothing his hands down my back and whispering sweet nothings into my ear. 

And there it was. 

The moment of truth. 

My hand snuck down his back, seemingly as if to comfort myself, as if to convince my mind that he was real – by now, I was not even sure anymore if this was a game; was I really searching comfort in Josh, the man who had kidnapped me, or was this just a way for me to escape? 

Was I a really good actor, or was I mentally ill? 

It’s as if time itself had stopped to give me more space to think about my next action, as if the world had stopped spinning the second my brain had sent the orders to my hands; and I had all the time in the world to consider the next action. 

Misuse Josh’s trust. 

Escape. 

Freedom. 

Without him. 

Or stay here. 

Possibly not get home. 

Possibly die. 

With him.

I reached down for the key chain in Josh’s pocket, and the second that I had pulled it out, the slow motion stopped and everything seemed to move in double speed. 

I sprang away from Josh and started sprinting for the door, and before he had even realized what was going on, I had slammed the door shut and rammed the key into the lock. There was a short second when I felt that Josh was throwing himself against the door, desperately hitting his shoulder against the tough metal to find a way to ram it open, but in vain – it was a heavy metal door, there was no way that he could escape. 

“I’m sorry,” I whispered against the surface, letting myself mourn for a heartbeat. 

I could’ve sworn that there was a second when Josh had looked at me, there had been a second where he was staring at something about me; and I supposed it was my lips, and he had been so distracted and I had used that advantage against him. 

I had taken blatant use of the fact that he had been staring at my lips. 

He had been staring at my lips, almost lovingly, his expression soft and his tone of voice even softer. 

And I had used it against him. 

I had used the little good that was inside Josh against him for my own, selfish needs. 

For a second, I considered regretting my choices, but then my sense of self-preservation kicked in.

It didn’t let me sink into the thought any further and forced me to start running. My feet started working quickly and dragged me down to the line of trees seaming the little lightening of the forest. I started running and running and running, not looking down or back or in any direction at all. 

After some time, I found a rumpled path that I started following. 

It all looked the same. 

Until. 

-

It was possibly the three hundredth dead end that I had hit when I realized that I was completely and utterly lost. 

I had started doubting my plan the second I had met Josh’s gaze that second, but now, I was completely convinced that this was the stupidest thing I had ever done in my life. 

I had blatantly taken advantage of Josh genuinely wanting to comfort me, and a part of myself felt very bad for that, whereas the other side was complimenting me on finally finding back to what I thought was the true Tyler Joseph – but I couldn’t be so sure anymore, everything was possible. 

My hands were shooting up, scratching the itches that had arisen on my arms. 

The sound of blood rushing through my ears was so loud that it drowned out the sound of an engine approaching and slowly stuttering to a halt behind me. 

And then a gunshot rang through my ears. 

I didn’t realize at first. 

Only when it was too late, when something hot started bubbling out of the wound on my back, I realized. 

Only when I passed out, I heard Josh’s angry curses and Pete’s incoherent groans.


	16. Part Four: I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey!   
> so, couple of things.   
> 1) I know that in the comments, I told someone that Pete might've been the one who shot Tyler, and I'm sorry. that was misleading. I was honestlyt thinking about doing that, but then I realized that this isn't really the way to go and it wouldn't make sense, cause Pete is supposed to be the compassionate character while Josh is absolutely driven by his utter hate toward Tyler. So I'm sorry for telling you that, it was true at the time and I really hate to disappoint you like that. I just think the story works better like this. Sorry.   
> 2) I AM GOING INSANE OH MY FUCKING GOD has anyone of you had one of these hate-crushes? cause there's this guy in my ethics and advanced english class and he drives me absolutely MAD cause he's so cocky and arrogant and stupid and I hate him but I would also kind of like to know about his problems and why he acts like he does and goodness where is my mind   
> 3) I know that with Ode to the Selfish, I made a few people upset cause of the fact that it didn't have a fairytale ending where everything went amazing and shit. I sadly have to say that I presume this story isn't perfect in that way either - I really tried giving it a happy end and to me, it is happy, but some might view it as...a little melancholic. The point is just that I'm trying to keep this realistic and not make it one of these stories that would just never work in real life, you know?   
> Anyways, sorry for the rambles. I hope you're having a nice day !   
> I love you all, thanks so much for reading,   
> Peace out   
> M

“You didn’t necessarily have to shoot him.”

Pause. 

“Yes, I did.” 

Pause. 

“He would’ve gotten away, and we could’ve said goodbye to the idea of Patrick ever walking out of that fucking hospital on his own two damn legs. Get you head out of your ass, Pete!” 

Pause. 

“No Josh, you get your head out of your ass!” 

Pause. 

Angry. 

“What would you have done in his place, huh?” 

Pause. 

“Kidnapped by strangers, taken somewhere into the woods where no one might find you, you’d be fucking terrified and ready to shoot someone, too!” 

Pause. 

“You’re just mad because he doesn’t love you or something like that!” 

Pause. 

Long pause. 

“Fuck you, Pete Wentz. Fuck you.” 

End. 

-

I woke up to the sight of Josh, with his head buried in his hands and his face looking red, swollen and just plain _angry_. The line of his jaw looked more protruding than usually, and the slight crinkle around his eyes was gone – replaced by harsh lines of anger. 

My head felt a little fuzzy, like someone had filled the space my brain had left with cotton balls and now they were pressing almost violently against the insides of my skull; soft and smothering. The pain was almost unbearable; so unbearable and strong that it took me a few minutes to realize that my head was not the only thing that hurt – the dry ache was dragging down my neck as well, a flaming hot path burning into my skin and leading over to my chest, where the pain dug deeper into my flesh and was the most intense – where the bullet had hit in. 

And right when the memories started flooding my mind again, Josh’s head whipped around and he stared at me, his eyes dark and full of rage. 

“You piece of shit,” he said, “You fucking piece of shit.” 

I passed out after that, only left with the faint memory of something different sneaking into Josh’s expression – something that vaguely looked like disappointment. 

Whom he was disappointed in, I didn’t know. 

Maybe himself, for letting me in. 

-

It was another fifteen meals (consisting of mainly mashed potatoes and peas since there was a slim possibility of me eating solid food and being able to get it through my horribly aching chest) of blatant nothingness until Josh returned. 

I didn’t know when I’d started counting the seconds until the man reappeared, but I couldn’t help myself – there was a certain curiosity fogging my distaste for him; my distaste for what he stood for, to be more precise. 

The curiosity over what he was about to do next was absolutely driving me mad; whether he was actually angry with me for misusing his ‘trust’, if you could even call it that, or if he was just going to act normal, talk to me about his story; about his family and how he’d grown up in poverty. If he’d continue trying to get me to understand that it wasn’t his fault that we were in this situation, if he’d continue lying through his teeth, telling me that he hadn’t wanted to hurt me. 

I was wondering, for a second, if he would just sit down on the floor and keep talking like he would have before I had attempted to run away.

I didn’t want to know. 

All I wanted was noise, loud, smothering noise, noise that would leave no room for anything else. Bass, drugs, alcohol. 

Anything loud. 

And if the man’s voice was the only noise I could get, I’d be damned if I wouldn’t jump at the opportunity. 

But the day that I saw him again didn’t come for a very long time, and I merely sat there in the small, suddenly very cramped room, waiting for him to return – I was sick and tired of pretending that there was no connection between us, we had kissed, for Christ’s sake, and he had seen me at my moments of pure insecurity. 

The days were dragging out; going by even more slowly than before, and there was this thick air of unknowing around the whole room. I didn’t know what was happening on the outside, I didn’t know if Josh was mad at me or not – hell, I didn’t even know if Pete and the other man were mad at me. 

And that was probably what I hated most about this thing: that I just didn’t fucking _know_. 

I didn’t know what was going on in the outside world, it didn’t know whether people were doing great or badly, whether my sister had given birth to her baby yet, whether Josh’s siblings were doing okay and if the company was doing okay since they’d had to deal with some stock price depressions in the last quarter – and the homesickness was now stronger than ever. All the people that I loved were carrying on with their lives as they had been before, missing me every day and wondering when I would be coming home, when there was a possibility that I wouldn’t – that I would die here in poverty, in pressing calamity; buried in the dirt of whatever Josh and Pete were throwing at me. 

I felt like there was something tugging at my insides, something crying for me to finally return to my father and Zack and Jay and Madison – I missed them all so much.   
What was even worse about the situation was the utter helplessness. There was no way that I could get out of this place now, I’d messed up once and apparently ended up with a bullet in my shoulder, and I was probably going to be trapped here for a lot longer if Josh and Pete didn’t finally decide to make their demands to get their friend Patrick out of the hospital. 

-

“You fucking piece of worthless shit!” 

Pause. 

“You fucking shot me, physically harmed me!” 

Pause. 

“My father will so make you pay for that.” 

-

And at that, he merely smiled – it was not the smile that I had, strangely enough, gotten so used to: there was not the faintest trace of happiness in it; it was a dark, twisted and menacing one that I barely remembered; it was the one that had obscured his face when he’d first thrown me into the room at the other house. It was the one that showed that he was in love with the fact that he was in total control – that there was nothing that I could do, nothing that I could say because he was the one in charge and there was no way I would make a move to spite him. I figured it must’ve been some way to cope with his unbelievable rage toward my father; it might’ve just been him projecting his anger onto me and therefore enjoying the concept of hurting me. 

However, all sudden bursts of rationality aside. 

The smile on his face, it was a little scary, to be honest – he looked like he was absolutely in love with what he was about to say, and for a second, I wondered what it was that had him look so happy.

-

Pause. 

Stares. 

“Your father is refusing to pay ransom.” 

Pause. 

-

At first, I looked at him like he was insane – this could really not be something that a mentally stable man would say, right? My father, a generous, good man, the man who had raised me, would be refusing to pay a sum of money in order to get me, his own son, out of the hands of a possibly violent man, who hadn’t hesitated to kidnap me while I was in an intoxicated state? 

Impossible. 

This was just flat out impossible. 

-

“That is not true.” 

Pause. 

“Yes, it is.” 

Pause. 

“No.”

Pause. 

“It’s not, you’re lying to me, because you’re filthy lying scum.” 

End. 

-

And with that, I started refusing to talk to him. I didn’t know for how long, I merely kept my mouth shut whenever Josh would ask me a question, or even look at me – there was nothing that I needed to say to this awful piece of trash, this liar, the man who had wanted to make me believe that my own father had no intentions of saving me, his own blood. His own fucking son. 

The rescue, though, was taking a bit too long – I had no idea for how long I’d been held captive now, it must’ve been weeks, possibly months, even, and I didn’t know when the police was finally going to find me and hopefully shoot Josh right in the head so I would never ever have to face this poor excuse for a human being ever again. 

-

All remorse over what I had done to flee was gone with the wind, it had disappeared in the blink of an eye, gone down to erase its existence and I told myself that I didn’t quite know what I had been so upset about in the first place. I hated that man, I hated this kidnapping, stealing, worthless piece of shit more than I hated anything in the world, and I didn’t cast a single glance in his direction. 

I didn’t look at him, I didn’t talk to him, I was hesitant to even breathe the same air as him. I was so consumed by my incredible, burning hatred toward this man that I forgot about everything else, that the quiet room no longer posed a threat as it was suddenly filled with the thick air of utter abhorrence. 

I hated Josh, and the second I’d be rescued by my strong, good father, I would never have to face his disgusting face, ever again. 

-

They never came, though.

No one ever came. 

I didn’t know how many nights and days I had spent in this place, leaning against the wall and staring out the small window, just watching the nature outside grow darker and fiercer. 

For some reason, freedom was no longer alluring, merely threatening, like something bad was going to happen the second I would ever step outside this building ever again. 

Maybe months had gone by, maybe mere days. 

The leaves were starting to turn brown, suggesting the end of summer, the start of a new season; the season of change, of looking at a horribly dark winter and times where you’d rather stay in bed all day, ignoring the wind outside and holding on to the thought of warmer days to come. 

It was dark and gloomy outside the window, and I started feeling like it wasn’t any better inside – all the privileges that I had been given by Pete were now revoked, the TV disappearing, the notebooks disappearing. 

Maybe it was some sort of sick, twisted punishment for my attempted breakout, maybe, a small, very mean voice thought, it was because they couldn’t afford the electricity bills anymore; though it didn’t really matter. I was quickly back to my old status, where I had been when they’d first locked me in here. 

As if nothing had happened, nothing had gone down in between; as if there had been no fiery kisses between me and Josh, as if he hadn’t been the one to take away the pain inside my head. 

As if there had never been a moment of doubt inside my head that had caused me to run away. 

I went back to everything before my first attack in captivity, my first blowup in front of Josh. I went back to staring at the corners and counting the cracks in the ceiling. 

-

This odd reflection was staring back at me, almost unreadable expression and dark hair, but I didn’t recognize the man in the mirror. I saw a young boy, stubble on his chin from not shaving in forever but not really having beard growth either, with an angry, determined chin and sad eyes. His jaw was set firmly and his teeth were gritting while his eyes just looked hurt; hurt in a way where the pain is buried deeply beneath everything but nonetheless, you can’t not see it, can’t omit the depth of utter grief. 

It didn’t seem to fit together, like there were too many emotions coursing through him, too many thoughts in his head preventing him from settling on what to feel, what to look like. 

The man in the mirror looked old, not physically old, but like he had gone through things that people would rather live in ignorance of. 

His arms were nothing but bare flesh with ribbons of skin covering them, the wounds of when he would scratch them open in his sleep having dominated; leaving merely blood streaming down. His arms; the arms he had maimed himself. 

The bandages didn’t do anything to stop the blood from flowing, it merely carried on, carrying away all his rational thoughts. 

Nothing about this man resembled Tyler Joseph, son of Albert Joseph, the rich owner of a company with worldwide success and rapidly growing stock prices. He looked absolutely empty, broken. 

This man, he was me. He was me, and I was him.


	17. Part Four: II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading, love you guys :)   
> comments are always appreciated!   
> hope you have a nice day!  
> M

It all didn’t matter. 

It didn’t matter that I didn’t recognize my own reflection in the mirror, it didn’t matter that I had bitten my fingernails to bone and scratched my skin to flesh. 

It didn’t matter that the physical pain was eating at me, surging through me in sharp shocks, never quite leaving my body. 

It didn’t matter. 

What did matter, however, was that I had trusted Josh. 

I had seriously trusted him, from the second on that he had held me during one of my attacks, when he had held me and kept my hands from scratching, when he had kept me safe and sound. And he had misused that trust; he had lied to me, he had put a bullet through my shoulder, and he had caused me physical pain – he was awful; just as awful as they all were. 

He was a poor excuse for a human being; he was unable to feel empathy and he hated me for some reason, a reason that probably even he didn’t know, and that angered me impossibly – what, in the world, did Josh think had given him the right to hate me? I had never done anything to him, I had never done anything untruthful or trustless like he had; I had not shot someone in the shoulder.

I hated him so much that when one day, when he was leaning against the wall next to the bed and starting to talk to me, I just blew up. 

The rage below my throat was growing more and more intense with every single word that he was speaking, every word a lie, every word empty; just like his pockets. 

Poverty, I decided, not only makes you a disgusting person, but also one with low moral standards – if you’re used to everyone fucking you over, you start being just as much of a horrible person as they are, and you stop caring – you become as horrible as the ones you’d used to fear. 

“Who do you think you are?” I hissed at Josh, who merely looked at me with boredom in his eyes, clearly thinking that I was only so angry because I was having another episode, one that he could lie his way out of. “Who do you think you are to keep me here for months, to hold me captive with no intention of ever letting me out?” I asked, and Josh shrugged. 

He came a few steps closer, and I subconsciously took a step back, retreating further into the corner that I’d been finding myself in quite frequently over the last few days. 

“Who I think I am?” he asked, with a small, cynical smile playing around his lips. “I’m Joshua William Dun, I am the son of the man that your father killed.”

And he stepped back, seemingly to give me room to breathe, but I could see straight through his bullshit – he didn’t have the intention to make more comfortable or help me with anything, all he wanted to do was get me to open up to him, to trust him again. 

But I was not going to do that, especially after he had told me a lie that big – my father? Being responsible for anyone’s death? 

My father was a good, pure man, he would never have tolerated the thought of being the reason for someone else’s misery. 

He had surely only said that to confuse me. 

He had said it to provoke a reaction; nothing else. 

He was dirty scum with no intention of ever being a decent human being toward me, he was lying. He was lying all the time, and he was lying to me. 

I hated liars. 

My father was a great man; a great man who had never told a lie before in his entire life. My father had brought up four children basically on his own when his wife died in a car crash, leaving his second eldest son in a deeply depressed and mentally unstable state. My father had been nothing short of giving and generous toward other people; and anyway, who did this man think he was to put himself above that? Did he think that just because you’re poor, you have to be a good person? 

“You disgust me,” I said to Josh, and he merely shook his head. 

This time, though, he didn’t get up to leave – he stayed in my cell, staring me down until I stood up as well, returning his gaze just as fiercely. 

In the exact moment when I opened my mouth to speak, however, he cut across the silence sharply. 

“No, Joseph,” he said, “You disgust me.” The words sounded like there were all kinds of venom pressed into them, like he had taken all the hate that was in his system and forced it into those three little words. 

“You think that just because you’re rich, you’re better than anyone else.” He snorted, short and humorless, and then he continued. “You think that you’re so much more important because you have way much more money on your bank account – well, newsflash, Tyler Joseph.” He paused to give me yet another angry, hard look. “You’re not different from me, or Pete, or Joe – initially, we’re all the same. And it doesn’t make you superior that your dad is an absolute asshole and has managed to make millions of people believe that he’s not a shitty person –“

“Don’t you fucking _dare_ talk about my father like that,” I suddenly cut across him, voice flat and barely above a hiss. “Don’t you dare talk about my father at all.” 

“Why? Because you fear that I might be telling the truth?” 

I gulped, hard. My hands were wandering up again. 

“No, because I think that you have no right to talk about him.” I took a deep breath. “My father,” I said, “is a great man. And just because you’re poor, you don’t automatically have the right to take people who have more money than you down – not having money doesn’t necessarily make you a good person.” 

“Well,” he said, “neither does having a lot of money.” 

“Why do you feel superior, then?” I asked, tiredly. 

“Because you feel like you can look down on me. But now, Tyler Joseph, you can’t anymore – you can’t, because we’re both on the same level. Down here, there’s no money that you can rely on, there’s no way to buy yourself out of this one-“

“Isn’t that the purpose of a kidnapping; that you can buy yourself out of the whole thing?” I cut across him shamelessly, looking up with the faint sound of anger scratching through my throat. 

The sudden confidence surging me was nothing but a product of the utter hatred coursing through my veins; or maybe it was love. 

“No,” he said sternly, “The purpose is relying on someone else caring enough to buy you out of this – and don’t you think it’s deadly ironic how my father, who wouldn’t have been able to scrape together a fucking fifth of what we demanded, even if he sold everything he owned, wouldn’t have hesitated a single second to give all he had in order to set me free, and yours, who actually _has_ the money, wouldn’t give it, even in exchange for your life?” 

I gulped, hard. 

Lies, lies.

All lies. 

He was lying. 

There was no truth in what he was saying; no truth in the thought of what he believed in. No truth in anything. 

Lies, lies. 

All he was speaking was lies. 

“Your father, the one that you keep defending, calling a great man, doesn’t give a solitary fuck about you.” 

Lies, lies. 

Untruths. 

“It was his fault that millions of men lost their existence maybe even lost their fucking lives; millions of men and women had to force their children to drop out of high school – that millions of children had to grow up in poverty, misery, just because your father couldn’t be bothered to keep his illegal business far enough to hide it from the people around him, at least far away enough not to raise suspicion among his employees.” 

Lies, lies. 

He was lying straight through his teeth. 

“Your fucking piece of shit of a father hired a man to kill my father, and when his little operation succeeded, I had to take care of my sisters, of my brother, of all of them.” 

Lies, lies. 

All lies. 

“And you’re the next one to be fucked over by the great fucking Albert Joseph; the man who would rather have his own son killed than give up the smallest part of his money.” 

Lies. 

Lies. 

Lies. 

“Is he still a great man?” 

A shrill scream started piercing through the room, ripping straight through my eardrums and causing a horrible headache to erupt; hammering against the back of my forehead. 

It took me longer than expected to realize that the scream was emerging from my own throat, that I was the one screeching my lungs out, that I was the one forcing horrible pain into my ears. 

It took me even longer to realize that my arms had started reaching up and scratching again; that pain had started to surface below the freshly opened wounds, that blood was slowly trickling down my skin and landing in a small puddle near my feet – I hadn’t noticed that there was a puddle, either. 

Josh merely looked at me, his eyes fiercely focused as he looked me up and down; staring shamelessly at my arms. 

“Tyler, what happened?” he asked calmly. 

My head started shaking, moving in short, spastic movements toward my shoulder, and I looked at him. 

“What?” The question came bubbling out of my mouth before I even realized that I was talking – it was like the inevitable, invisible force had taken over my body yet again. 

Even though it hadn’t, not in three years. 

At least never this badly. 

“What happened three years ago in that car crash?” 

The scream grew louder, hovering above the sound of blood rushing through my ears. 

Until out of a sudden, all noise ceased. 

-

Without memory, we are nothing. 

Without knowing where we came from, we’re going nowhere. 

This hadn’t happened in almost three years, it hadn’t happened ever since _it_ had happened, and I had been content with ignoring the existence of this, this invisible force drawing my hands, my nails, toward my arms to scratch. 

I had been content; I had been happy. There hadn’t been anything keeping me from being myself, unleashing myself and being the person that I’d always wanted to be, being the person that my dad would’ve wanted me to be. 

I had been almost perfectly fitting into my role of the rich heir of a rich industrial boss; I had been amazing at it. 

I would go out every single day, drown all my thoughts in drinks and erase them with pills, only to throw myself into meaningless sex that would leave me feeling worthless and exposed the day after. I was all but forcing myself to enjoy the life I had brought myself into – and I had been content. 

I had been forgetting, I had been perfectly capable of pushing those thoughts out of my mind, but the silence of this cell was nauseating – and it had finally gotten me to think. 

I missed the loud noise blasting out of the speakers, the bass thumping heavily through my bones and the slightly slurred feeling of doing something after having downed a few shots; or having forced myself to swallow one pill after the other. 

I missed the numb feeling that would set itself deeply into my gut the second that I would turn up in a club, all my thoughts drowned out by the mind-numbing, horrible music that was nothing but a three-step melody and half-assed beats. I missed the incredible silence that would set in right after I’d leave the club, I missed the throbbing aftershocks of the almost painful bass thumps. 

I missed how when I was drunk or high or buried balls-deep in some girl, I wouldn’t need to think. My body would go on autopilot, my body would just hit it and do and think nothing else and just _work_ the way that I’d like it to; the way that I’d like it to be numbed down. 

But there was nothing I could do in here; I was exposed to my own thoughts and feelings, and my hands wouldn’t stop scratching. 

It wasn’t going to stop. 

I only had the chance to forget. 

-

“Tyler!” the voice repeated, and I continued thrashing around on the floor, desperately trying to shake it all off; shake the horrible pain inside my head off and make my arms stop bleeding. 

“Tyler,” it screamed again, and I shook my head desperately, hoping that it wouldn’t hurt me – hoping the voice would just leave me alone; leave me alone in the dark just like my own father had done it. 

“Tyler,” it said yet again, and something warm and soft closed around my hands, holding them tightly and firmly and keeping them from doing any further damage. I could feel the warm blood pool around my elbows, crowding around my neck and form a crimson halo around my tangled, dirty hair. 

As much as I twisted and turned, the grip wouldn’t budge; the warm force would continue holding me, keeping me from getting away – capturing me in its deadly grip. 

Until I realized that all the warmth was doing was trying to get me to calm down, trying to get me to stop wanting to hurt myself – but what if I didn’t want to stop? 

The warm force still made no move to let me go, though. 

“Tyler,” the voice repeated yet again, sounding almost pleading, as if the voice wanted me to return to the real world; keep away from what my mind had been telling me to do. 

“Tyler,” it said, and something started stroking my hair, burying itself in the greasy, unwashed curls and brushing them away from my face, leaving me exposed. 

Something in my chest was screaming for me to stop, was screaming for me to run away, to make it stop, to get the force away from me, but something inside me felt protected, almost _safe_ when this intangible warmth was around – I vaguely remembered feeling it on my lips during one of my attacks. 

My eyes were starting to fight to open again, they were starting to want to see the force, see what was happening, but the bright lights caused me to immediately shut them. 

“Tyler, please,” said the voice, and my eyes finally gave in.


	18. Part Four: III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all so much for the amazing comments I received on the last chapter, I literally can't thank you enough. I know I sound like an arse-kisser, but I really do appreciate the things you say; it really makes me want to continue writing and actually do this.   
> ALSO I have another story planned, but I have no idea how long it'll take cause right now, I have gotten into the habit of watching Supernatural like a maniac and I've binge-watched the entire first season so the story might just be delayed a liiiiiittle bit. however, it will most likely be a perrentes (pierce the veil anybody?) so if you're a fan of the ship, stay tuned! I just can't name any actual release dates cause I'm buried neck deep in school work and there's little possibility that I'll ever surface again but hey, I will make it work.   
> so anyway, thank you.   
> thank you so much.   
> have a lovely day.   
> M

Josh was looking down at me with a soft expression, almost concerned for my wellbeing –almost sad that I had gone through this yet again, and he hadn’t been able to stop it; he hadn’t been able to help me out of it. 

It was fierce and painful, the way that he stared down at me, but at the same time very loving, caring. 

Concerned . 

“What happened, Tyler?” he asked, and I looked up at him, unaware of the blood making my hair stick together. 

“I remembered,” I said, and he furrowed his brow. 

“What did you remember, Tyler?”

“It,” I said, and another questioning look ensued – followed by the actual question. 

“What do you mean by ‘it’?” 

My hands immediately shot up, wanting to scratch, hurt, inflict pain – but Josh reacted quickly and grasped my wrists; keeping them in a firm grip. 

“No,” he said, almost pressing it through his teeth, “You’re not getting out of it.” 

I started shaking my head frantically, desperately trying to shake him off, but he wouldn’t budge – he was sitting there, staring down at me sternly. 

“You have to say it, Tyler,” he urged, “Or else you’ll never be able to let it go, or even live with it.” 

I continued thrashing around. 

Shake him off. 

Get him away from me. 

Get him off. 

Too close. 

“Tyler,” Josh suddenly said, and all the movements stuttered to a halt, stopping at the sight of Josh looking down at me with a worried expression; worried, haunted, deathly pale. 

“Tell me what’s wrong with you,” he demanded. 

It didn’t sound violent, to be honest, it sounded like he genuinely wanted to know, like it was important to him, personally, that I was going to be okay. 

Shivers were chasing each other down my spine, sending sharp shocks of fear through me. 

“I don’t know,” I answered honestly. “I really don’t know.” 

“Well, tell me why you start scratching open your arms every time you think about your father,” he commanded, and I had no choice but to obey – something in his eyes was telling me to talk. 

“Because there’s something in the back of my mind telling me to – telling me to hurt myself at the thought of my father.” 

“Why would you think that?” 

“I don’t know, maybe it’s because he once told me that I was not worthy of being his son; he disowned me when our mother died, saying that I had to be taught a lesson and that I was not going to get rewarded for….for…”

“For doing what?” 

My arms shot up again, but he was holding me tightly; there was no escape. 

My mind suddenly started running on overdrive, racing in infinite circles; running and running and running, not stopping at even my most desperate attempts to slow it all down, to keep the thoughts exploding in my head and prodding at every spot; trying to shove something at me. 

The memories came flooding my inner eye, taking me right back to the day; the day it all went wrong. 

Without memory, we are nothing. 

But now, the memories were back; right back to haunt me. 

I saw the steering wheel in front of me; I saw the street, rainy and angry and dark and wet, and I saw my mother in the corner of my eye, yelling and screaming, telling me to hurry up and that we’d be horribly late if I wouldn’t at last decide to drive with something beyond 20 miles per hour. I saw her pushing my shoulder, trying to hit my face when I refused to step on the gas pedal more. I saw the raindrops and tears clouding my vision, I saw the cars rushing past alongside me. I saw myself, yelling back, begging my mother to shut up and stop pushing me. 

The only thing I didn’t see was the twenty ton truck coming toward us. 

I heard the yelling, the screaming, the desperate hollers, but it was too late – the water had raided me of the last bit of control I’d had over my car, and it all started slipping. I forgot where up and down was, and the sides went blurry around my head. I was spinning so quickly that I almost didn’t notice that we were, in fact, actually spinning – and that my mother was bleeding. 

She was losing so much blood. 

And right before the paramedic declared her deceased, she’d said ‘I love you, Tyler’. 

And then I saw Josh looking at me expectantly, brow furrowed and eyes concerned. 

And I finally opened my mouth to speak, sad and angry and scared. 

“For killing my mother.” 

-

“He thinks that I’m responsible for my mother’s death.”

Pause.

“Why does he think that?” 

Pause. 

“Because I was the one driving the car when she died.” 

Pause. 

“What happened?” 

Pause. 

Long pause. 

Doesn’t want to say. 

“Come on, Tyler, I’m not going to judge over you, it’s not my right.” 

Pause. 

Laughs. 

“You’ve never had a problem judging over me.” 

Pause. 

“Just tell me what happened, Joseph.” 

Pause. 

Deep breath. 

“We were…we were going to my sister’s ballet performance – I know, it’s a cliché – and it…it was raining. Not just normal rain, but, you know, Columbus rain.” 

Pause. 

Deep breath. 

“She was drunk.” 

Pause. 

Deep breath. 

“She wasn’t usually an angry drunk, she was just…a little off, and in a way where she was completely confused, too. So what you usually do when she gets like that is you try to please her, make her content, but at that time, it was impossible.”

Pause. 

Gulp.

“It was raining so heavily that I thought I was going to lose control over the car if I’d drive faster than 20 miles per hour, so I didn’t, I carried on slow.”

Pause. 

Deep breath. 

“So she kept screaming at me to hurry up, that we were going to miss my sister’s performance, but I’d only just gotten my license and barely knew how to drive. So I kept driving slow. But she was yelling so loudly, and so much, and I couldn’t get her to shut up even once, and it was so fucking horrible, Josh, believe me – she was so angry that I forgot to look over my shoulder when taking a left turn.”

Pause. 

“And I didn’t see the truck coming from the street on the right.” 

Pause.

“She died on an instant.” 

Pause. 

Tears.

“And do you think that it’s your fault?”

Pause. 

“Yes, I do.” 

Pause. 

“Have you forgiven yourself?” 

Pause. 

“No, I haven’t.” 

End. 

-

“Your father disowned you because he thinks it’s your fault that your mother died,” said Josh. He didn’t make it sound like a question, merely a statement to see if he’d understood correctly. 

I nodded faintly, not quite trusting my voice at the moment. 

“That is really, really stupid, you know that, right?” he asked, and a sudden cynical laugh slipped through my throat – I was probably more surprised by it than him. 

“Have you forgotten that you hate me?” I asked him, and he merely sighed. 

“I don’t hate you,” he said, and I raised my eyebrows. 

“It does seem a little like you hate me, dear Josh,” I said. 

“I hate what you stand for; I hate that you think you’ve achieved something important even though all you’ve ever done in your life is brag about your dad’s money.” 

I shook my head silently, remembering the first time that we’d switched locations and Josh had punched me square in the jaw after I’d made some snarky remark. 

No, he surely didn’t hate me – maybe it was just a fierce dislike, I thought bitterly. 

“I’ve told you this multiple times, but once more won’t hurt: You seem like a good guy whose life was just a little too shitty for him to live with, therefore you’ve created this little imaginative world for yourself where everything is fine. Don’t pretend that you’re really into sex, drugs and rock’n’roll. You’re the boy who said in an interview with the Rolling Stone that you’re wearing a chastity ring and that you plan on getting married early and not drinking alcohol, ever. And I think that person I still buried somewhere beneath this façade – it just scares me a little how you can go from rich bratty kid to little pained puppy in about three seconds flat.” 

I sucked in a deep breath. 

“You’re the living contradiction; and the way you behave raises the question whether the nice part is an act or the bad one. I’m completely convinced, though, that you’re just a better actor than you give yourself credit for.”

I shook my head, getting up from my sitting position. 

“I don’t think you get it,” I said. 

“Have you not been listening to me for the last couple minutes?” he asked, suddenly sounding very aggravated. “I just told you that I understand very well and that I want you to be better, and all you do is hide behind your fucking guards and bury yourself beneath this, this, this…this fucking _lie_ that you made yourself to be.” His jaw looked hard and angry, like he was about to say something else. 

“You’re a lie, Tyler Joseph,” he said.

-

I wasn’t sure whether Josh was doing all these things to upset me. 

He was sitting there; staring me down and clearly waiting for me to do something, and then leaned in and kissed me. 

He just kissed me. 

And I kissed back, unable to think of something else to do.


	19. Part Four: IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading, I love you all! :)  
> M

My father had left me. 

I didn’t know where this thought had come from, but I knew it was the truth. 

Realization had slowly snuck up on me, until suddenly, it hit me with full force, smashing into me and shattering all other coherent thoughts in the process. The pain I felt at this inevitable treason cut deeper than any knife, hitting me straight into the flesh and dragging through my bones slowly. 

It was almost unbelievable; my father, my great, amazing father, had left me alone to rot, captured by a bunch of violent criminals, with no intention of doing what they told him to do in order to free me of their command. 

I felt so truly and thoroughly betrayed, as if my father wouldn’t even deem his own son worthy of leading his life the way he wanted; and it was, to be frank, quite ironic of him to be thinking like that: Ever since me, my sister and my brothers had been little, our father had made us believe that we were above everyone else, that we were better than them because we had more money in our pockets and they were the ones to blame for their own misery – something that I had never doubted, never thought twice about. 

Not only had he broken down all love I had left for my father with his refusal, no, he had also gotten me to doubt what he had been telling me all my life. 

My father had left me, and for some reason, I didn’t feel sad about that. 

-

“You’re not better than me.” 

Pause. 

“I’m not?” 

Pause.

“No.”

Pause. 

“Why not?” 

Pause. 

“Well, have you ever done anything to achieve your own wealth?”

Pause. 

“No.”

Pause. 

“Well, then, here you go.” 

End. 

-

I wasn’t sure what Josh meant when he asked me if I had achieved my own wealth – I didn’t know if he said that to shove in my face that all I did was live off my father’s fortune; which, as I liked to believe, was not the case. 

Despite the fact that I was a little lazy with my college degree, I knew that I deserved all the good things coming to me – or did I?

-

“You know.”

Pause. 

“I’ve told you this many times before, but I think you’re a genuinely good guy.” 

Pause. 

Slight smile around his lips. 

“You haven’t done anything for me to hate you, but you haven’t done anything to make me like you.”

Pause. 

“You’re not as bad as you make yourself out to be, you’re not a horrible person.”

Pause. 

“You’re just really, really scared of people seeing you for you and not someone else, not the bratty son of a rich entrepreneur. I know you’re not a bad person, so stop acting like one.” 

Pause. 

“I killed my mother.” 

Pause. 

“No, Tyler, you didn’t.” 

Pause. 

Cries. 

“It was never your fault.” 

-

We kissed. 

-

“It was never your fault,” it echoed inside my head. 

Had Josh been serious when he’d said that? Had it really not been my fault that my mother had found her sudden death in the dirty streets, rain whipping down on her bleeding body and mingling with all the blood and tears? 

Had it not been my fault? 

I could feel my mind fighting with the sickness that my father had planted, the nagging voice that reminded me of all the wrong I had done. 

Was I good, was I bad, was I poor, was I rich? Who was I? What was I? Would the good I had done in my life ever outweigh the evil? 

Was I rich? 

Suddenly, though, the fight ceased. Everything inside my head stuttered to a halt, everybody dropping their weapons as apprehensive realization entered, shooting through my head in a quick flash and quieting down the struggle of everything else. 

I was not a bad person. 

I had made poor choices, I had done bad things, but I was not a bad person – neither was I good. 

I was an absolute blank canvas. 

With all the days I had spent inside this…this cage, I had slowly but surely sifted away from the person I had become over the last years, I had dropped all the façades I’d built myself into, and there was nothing but a vacant space left. 

This, this was my chance to make myself new. 

To be me, instead of just Albert Joseph’s problematic son. 

Maybe it was a little bit my fault that my mother had died; even though she’d wanted me to hurry, I should’ve looked over my shoulder, there was nothing preventing me from doing so. But it certainly wasn’t only my fault. My father’s anger over me being the one present when she died was merely misdirected, it was anger that he had harbored towards himself, himself as the person that had made me who I was, the person that had spent years covering my mother’s tracks as she drank herself toward her death. 

And, most importantly, nothing in the world would ever justify that he had left me here to rot. 

Ironically enough, while I had learnt to feel something that vaguely resembled love toward Josh, all positive emotion toward my father had been replaced by blatant, harsh hatred. As if all masks inside my head had fallen, dropped down to rest elsewhere while my mind was finally able to see, see without being forced into lying to me. 

I was strangely okay with that. 

Now was the time. 

To be someone else, to be someone better. 

And it was the time to be that with Josh.


	20. Part Four: V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello!   
> I hope you enjoy this (super mad cheesy) chapter, and look forward to the actual last part on Thursday.   
> thank you all so much for reading, and have a lovely day!   
> M

The kiss was desperate, angry, sad – almost like a goodbye kiss. Almost like Josh thought that this was the last time we’d be able to do this, so he put all the emotion that he had into this one simple display of affection. 

His arms wrapped around the small of my back, pulling me closer even when I was pressed up against him with no room left between us, not even a tiny bit of air. 

My arms came up to encircle his neck and tangle in his hair, gripping the red curls and pulling him closer and closer. 

The kiss was almost perfect, I realized. 

Without another word, Josh pulled away, got up and left me alone. 

-

I dreamt a very strange dream that night. 

Odd images of myself shackled up to a wall flooded my mind, followed by my father’s face appearing and calling me things like ‘worthless’ and ‘scum’. I barely realized that these were, in fact, the words I had used for Josh and Pete and Joe. All these days seemed so far away, even though only one meal ago, I had called Josh exactly that – but something in between had changed.   
Something had changed, and something inside my gut was telling me to change as well, to let a façade drop, to force myself into being me again, not just some faceless figure carrying my name. 

The disbelief over what my father had done had shaken something inside me awake, something that had been sleeping soundly for many, many years. The Something immediately started roaring and clawing at the insides of my stomach, reminding me of the past. Memories came flooding back through my mind, memories of my brothers looking at me pitifully after I had had to sit in front of a court and tell them about the accident, make it clear that I had not done anything wrong – even though I had. 

My father, the great Albert Joseph, was not coming to save me. 

-

I didn’t see Josh again after that for many meals, and I wasted lots of thoughts wondering why – there was no part of me that could’ve denied the fact that something was drawing me toward him, and I did not have any strength left to tell myself that that was an untruth, so I merely let myself sink deeper into the fairytale thought of this man, the antagonist, being my hero, being the reason why I was still alive. 

The ceiling seemed to be drooping lower with every day, slowly coming down to smother me. 

There was nothing poetic about the way that the time passed, hours and maybe even days rushing past me without a chance to get them back, without a chance to help myself out of this mess that I had dug myself in. 

-

I had come to terms with my attraction toward Josh. 

I had accepted and learnt to live with the fact that there was something inside my head drawing me toward him, wanting to be near his existence all the time. I had accepted that there was something about his face that absolutely glued me to his features; made me unable to think of anything else. 

I had accepted that the border between hating someone and loving them was as thin as thread, weaving through our lives and making it almost impossible to distinguish these two emotions. 

I didn’t know whether I loved Josh, or hated his guts, but I was sure that I wanted to see him, more this time, and talk. 

There was this pathetically hopeful feeling inside me that told me he would listen to me, that he of all people would understand what I had to say, and that not one judgmental thought would ever cross his mind. 

I would be able to talk to him about my mother, tell him about how she had returned many nights, smelling of alcohol and cigarettes and absolute despair. I would be able to tell him about my father, how he had done nothing, in my entire life, to make me feel like I was his son and not just someone who happened to live in the same house as him. 

The problem was, Josh wasn’t coming back, as it seemed. 

\- 

The door crashed open loudly, the sound bouncing off the walls and hitting me straight in the face, awaking me from the half-slumber I had found myself to be in. 

I was surprised to find not Josh standing there in the doorframe, but Pete.   
He looked like something truly horrifying had happened, like doing this, entering this room, was his last resort, the last thing on a list of things to solve this problem with. Sheer panic was masking his features as he struggled to find the right words to tell me, struggled to put this feeling of utter fear into words. 

Finally, he spat out the words that would possibly change my life forever. 

“Josh is going to give himself up to the police.” 

-

Not in my entire life had I ever moved this fast. My feet immediately started working, trampling out of the room, and Pete let me. 

I didn’t ask for an explanation, I didn’t ask for any details.

My feet were running, my mind was buzzing and blood was rushing through my ears – the perfect scene for something like this. 

I had mere seconds to think about what I was going to say, to do, anything – and suddenly, it all stopped. 

The noise ceased, and my mind started running on overdrive. 

Why was I so concerned? Why did it bother me that Josh wanted to give himself up? This, initially, was what I had wanted, wasn’t it? That he’d set me free and leave me to carry on with my life the same was as before, carry on with what I was used to. 

I would be able to hear the loud noises of a club again, I would be able to drink and take pills and have sex and no one would ever make me feel bad about it again, there was no way that I’d ever be in this situation again – but this wasn’t what I wanted. 

My head was telling me to jump to a halt and let Josh do however he pleased, but my heart was telling me to run, to fall into his arms and convince him to drop this plan. 

But when I turned the last corner and looked out the front door, I knew it was too late. 

-

There was something about the way that the night reflected off of Josh’s eyes that I adored very much; a beautifully stunned sight – but maybe it was just the police sirens that had caused him to freeze into this odd stupor. Maybe it was the bright flashing lights illuminating his features, sneaking through his cheekbones and bringing them out until they were protruding; standing forward and making his cheeks seem hollow and empty. 

The officers were yelling something about dropping his weapon, and Josh did as he was told; letting the gun slip out of his hand; but holding on to my hand even tighter. 

“I love you,” he said. 

My heart stopped beating completely, only resuming to its normal rhythm after I had made sure that he’d really just said that – that it hadn’t been my mind playing tricks on me. 

“Let go of the boy,” said one of the officers, and Josh’s jaw tightened. 

“I’ll get you out,” I said, “I’ll figure something out.” 

Josh gave me a strange look, and continued holding on to me. 

While the policemen came toward us, Josh was still gripping onto my hand for dear life, but the man repeatedly asked him to let go of his hostage. 

Eventually though, he did let go of me. 

The men put him in handcuffs and led him away, stuffing him into the crammed little police car and got in, driving off. 

After that it was a rush of colors and shapes, all jumbled up and rushing around in odd circles. I appeared to be the center of all the hectic; all the policemen struggling to put Pete and Joe in handcuffs, the psychiatric councilor giving me a concerned look and asking me random questions. 

Everything happened so fast, but my mind wasn’t able to keep up with the pace. 

I barely took notice of the paramedics coming toward me and asking me if I was all right, if he had physically harmed me; if I was okay and if I had physical injuries. 

I shook my head, and then they found the bullet wound in my shoulder and started talking in hushed voices, obviously about me, and then a man came to ask me what had happened and why there was a low caliber bullet in my flesh; and why the wound was barely even bandaged. 

“Did he do anything else to you?” asked the man, and I shook my head almost compulsively. 

“No,” I said, and he raised his eyebrows, but nodded nonetheless. 

I watched with glassy eyes as the police car took off, tearing the one person I loved away from me, mere seconds after I’d realized that I loved them.


	21. Part Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi everyone!   
> it's been an insane journey, and I really, really hope you enjoy the ending to this story. I am actually quite fond of the way this turned out, and I hope you like it too.   
> Please leave me a comment if you like my writing, or if you don't, tell me what I'm doing wrong - feedback is always nice.   
> Anyway, I hope you're having a good day  
> I love you all  
> M

The hospitals were rushing past in a blur; one room after another, one person after another asking me questions about how Josh had inflicted pain on me, why he had suddenly decided to give himself up to the police and why he had been holding my hand while doing so. 

I always told them the same thing. 

“It wasn’t him, he didn’t do anything to me.” 

They’d asked me what I meant by that multiple times, but I was refusing to elaborate – they wouldn’t understand. 

I was taken through more examinations, and my dad hadn’t visited yet. 

My sister and brothers had come, asking me what had happened and that they were sorry about not having called the police earlier, our father hadn’t even told them about the ransom demands. 

I cried that night. 

-

“It wasn’t him,” I repeated for the umpteenth time, and even though the judge raised his eyebrows incredulously and Josh looked at me oddly from the suspect’s stand, I merely smirked. 

-

“How did a bullet land in your shoulder, Mr. Joseph?” 

Pause. 

“I was shot.” 

Pause. 

“By whom where you shot, Mr. Joseph?” 

Pause. 

“By my father.” 

Pause. 

“Elaborate, please.” 

Pause. 

“On January 25th, I was walking down an alley in Columbus, Ohio. I had been out with a couple of friends that night, and suddenly, a dark van pulled up beside me. I didn’t think anything of it, since, admittedly, I was fairly intoxicated, so I merely kept walking. Until suddenly, someone pulled me into the van and blindfolded me, and drove me to an abandoned house out of the city. This person then held me captive for several days in that place, also using physical abuse as a form of discipline, until the person decided, for some reason, to move me to another building, the one that the police found me in.” 

Pause. 

“Did you know your kidnappers, Mr. Joseph?” 

Pause. 

“No, I did not.” 

Pause.

“At least I thought so, until, after a fair amount of time, I tried running away, and the kidnapper revealed themselves.”

Pause. 

Josh. 

In the corner. 

Flinches. 

Scared. 

“The man who had kidnapped me, it was my father.” 

Pause. 

Exhale. 

Incredulous. 

Realization. 

“My own father kidnapped me and gave me this bullet wound when I tried to flee.” 

Pause. 

“Is there any reason as to why your father would do such things to you?” 

Pause. 

“He thinks I am responsible for my mother’s death.” 

Pause. 

“Ah, I see. Christine Joseph, deceased in 2009 in an accident caused by a heavily intoxicated transport driver. And why, may I ask, would your father think that it was you who was initially responsible for her passing?” 

Pause. 

“I was driving at the time, and I didn’t see the truck coming.” 

Pause. 

“Well, Mr. Joseph. We have found clear fingerprints of your father in every secured crime scene and can certainly connect him to this crime. I only have one more question.” 

Pause. 

Eyebrows raised. 

“Where does Joshua William Dun come into all this?” 

Pause. 

“Mr. Dun was apparently jogging or hiking in the area of where my father was holding me captive, and heard my screams. He went to free me and initially asked me what had happened, as he could not see anyone else near this property – apparently, it had been my father’s plan to leave me there, alone and captured, until I would starve to death.” 

Pause.

“In an attempt to save my family, for some reason, Mr. Dun called the police and admitted to having kidnapped me, as a form of vengeance, if I recall correctly.”

Pause. 

“However, I have no intentions of letting Mr. Dun go into prison, merely to save me, so this is it. My own father kidnapped and shot me.” 

Nod. 

Scratches beard. 

“So, you do not recall ever being physically or psychologically harmed by Joshua William Dun?” 

Pause. 

“I did not know this man prior to the incident at the house in the woods, therefore, no, he has never harmed me in any way.” 

Pause. 

“Very well.” 

End. 

-

“We hereby sentence Albert Joseph to twenty years in a federal prison.” 

-

“How the fuck did you do that?” asked Josh, with an expression of pure disbelief. 

“I have my ways,” I replied nonchalantly, and looked at him with a smirk. 

“You said that you loved me before,” I said, and Josh’s expression suddenly grew slightly sour. 

“You lied to get your own father into trouble, Tyler, that’s not good,” he said, and I merely shrugged my shoulders. 

“My father is a bad person,” I replied. 

For a few heartbeats, Josh remained silent, angrily and disbelieving that I had committed a crime just to cover up his own wrongdoing. 

“I found the papers in his office, you know,” I said. 

“Your father didn’t commit suicide.” 

Josh gulped, and looked at me with nothing but pure grief in his eyes. 

“Don’t talk about my father, Tyler.” 

“No, no, hear me out – my father’s business apparently wasn’t 100% clean. He had an entire binder of shipments of unknown origin that were labeled with ‘H & E’, which, to be honest, is absolutely pathetic, considering he thought that no one would realize he was smuggling drugs if he called them ‘H & E’. Anyway, I found them and went through, and when I did some more digging, I found out that apparently, he had a hit man kill your father.” 

Now it was my turn to gulp, not quite knowing how he’d react to this information. 

“I’m really sorry, Josh.” 

All he did, though, was let out a huge, heaving sigh and look over to me with an incredulous expression. 

“So you did all that snooping around in your father’s office, merely to get me out of this?” 

I shrugged. 

“I don’t know, Tyler, it seems a little far-fetched.” 

I gave him a slight smile. 

“It’s true, though, Josh,” I lied. 

At that, he merely rolled his eyes. 

“Let’s go, Tyler.” 

I raised my eyebrows, looking him up and down. 

“Where to?” I asked. 

“I don’t know,” he said, “We’ll figure something out.” 

And we did figure something out.


End file.
